


Daughter of Divinity

by mechawaka



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fated Meeting to Friends to Lovers, Low Magic AU, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating will change, Slow Burn, background sylvain/ingrid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 133,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechawaka/pseuds/mechawaka
Summary: Byleth, the Holy Maiden of the Church of Seiros, has spent half of her life confined within the walls of Garreg Mach Monastery. Her days in isolation are largely the same, punctuated only by occasional escapes to the nearby forest.But one night, after receiving an omen from the Goddess and saving a wounded soldier's life, all of that changes.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 487
Kudos: 1037





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a highly self-indulgent AU full of all my favorite romance tropes - please enjoy! It's gonna be a long ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now [fanart](https://endspire.tumblr.com/post/612710805719384064/it-was-no-longer-time-to-be-lady-byleth-it-was) by [endspire](https://endspire.tumblr.com) on tumblr!!

The frigid, pious Kingdom of Faerghus had endured for thousands of years under the benevolent eye of the Goddess, they told her. The Goddess blessed the land to endure countless incursions from Sreng to the north and the Adrestian Empire to the south; the Goddess bestowed divine power upon the House of Blaiddyd to protect the people and lead them sagely.

Byleth found it all incredibly confusing.

“Why doesn’t the Goddess protect the rest of Fodlan?” She asked Seteth, her tutor, while trying to stave off a yawn. It seemed rather petty to her that a god would play favorites with such a small portion of the world’s land.

Seteth donned an oft-worn, lightly disapproving frown before answering. “The Goddess does not offer Her holy shroud to those who reject Her teachings,” he intoned. “The Empire defies Her directly.”

She perked up considerably at this new, non-scripture information. “And the Alliance?” 

“The Alliance- is a complicated beast,” Seteth said hesitantly. “They cannot agree year to year whether or not to accept the Church, and so we cannot grant them consistent oracles.”

Byleth made a small sound of annoyance, twirling her quill on a half-filled sheet of notes. “We should at least accept their faithful and grant _them_ oracles, even if their government doesn’t allow us to influence policy.”

“ _Byleth_ ,” Seteth hissed, setting down his scripture book for emphasis. “May we make it through one day of lessons without some form of heresy leaving your mouth?”

_Likely not_ , she thought, as any assertion of her opinion seemed to be taken as heresy. She didn’t see anything wrong with what she’d said, either; the Church of Seiros had no lands or resources of its own, relying on the protection of the Kingdom for its survival. In return, the Church provided the people of the Kingdom with divine oracles, a prophetic power that rested only within the highest echelons of its clergy.

Oracles - and their lesser counterpart, auguries - could predict anything from the following day’s weather to the outcome of a large-scale battle depending on the user, and so the Kingdom and the Church were engaged in a long-standing mutual relationship of convenience. By its very nature, this bond allowed the Church to wield considerable power in the Kingdom’s politics.

Even though Seteth would not say, Byleth strongly suspected that the Alliance - ruled by a group of lords rather than a single monarch - did not wish to end up in such a state, sharing one of its coveted lawmaking chairs with the Church.

Instead of voicing any of these concerns, Byleth simply bowed her head demurely, as she knew she was expected to do. “Forgive me,” she said, hoping her mint-green hair hid the insincerity on her face. “Where were we?”

Seteth nodded in acknowledgement, picking up his scripture book once again. “Founding Day traditions,” he said warily, keeping one eye on her as if she could spontaneously begin spouting heresy again at any moment. He paced back and forth in front of his desk, which Byleth was currently using, long priest’s robes trailing lightly behind him. “As I was saying: the Goddess bestowed divine power on the House of Blaiddyd to protect the people and lead them sagely. Therefore, every ten years, we who house the Saints and the Goddess maintain this blessing through a ritual meant to re-enact the night that the Goddess appeared to King Loog and-”

Byleth stared vaguely at her notes as his voice drifted in and out of focus, marking up her page in a way that she thought might look industrious. Her mind wandered to other things - _anything_ that wasn’t yet another lecture on something that the Goddess or one of the Saints did three thousand years ago.

In her distracted state, the patter of hail against the temple roof sharpened in her ears and she thought of the monastery cats. How were they getting on? This was an unseasonable storm, after all; usually, by this point at the end of the Wyvern Moon, the rain and hail had given way to snow. After she and Flayn had read the storm in an augury last week, the two had busied themselves creating makeshift shelters out of sticks and leaves for the cats that lived outside the walls. Byleth reached to the augur spike that hung on a thin chain around her neck, smoothing her fingers over the cold silver, and hoped the little shelters had held up.

“Byleth,” Seteth complained wearily. 

She jumped in her seat, marring her notes with a jagged line of black ink. Before she was obliged to offer up another empty apology, though, the door to Seteth’s study opened.

“Father Seteth,” a young acolyte said hurriedly, bowing at the waist. “I have a message from Lady Rhea.” She made to draw back the heavy, translucent mesh curtain that separated the front and back halves of the room.

“Halt!” Seteth ordered sharply. “The Holy Maiden is present.”

The acolyte’s hand dropped at once; she held it to her chest as if she’d burned it. “Oh! Please forgive me, Lady Byleth!” She directed several deep bows in the direction of the desk, keeping her eyes downcast. Details were hard to discern through the mesh, but the girl looked like she might be trembling. 

Byleth hated it. 

“It’s all right. Please think no more on it,” she said, keeping her voice even and serene as she’d been taught. 

Seteth gave her a small, approving nod before turning back to the door. “Relay the message, Sister.”

The acolyte snapped upright, back ramrod-straight. “O-Of course! Lady Rhea has requested your presence, and that of Sister Flayn, in the Saints’ Hall.”

Seteth rested one hand on his hip, a tiny, irritated motion that was usually the result of something Byleth had done. “Did she say why? I am in the midst of instruction. Lady Byleth’s education is not a matter to take lightly.”

“No, um- no, she didn’t,” the acolyte stammered nervously. “I’m sorry.”

He glanced back at Byleth regretfully, then down at her ruined notes, and sighed. “It cannot be helped. Please escort the Holy Maiden back to her rooms.” He snapped his scripture book closed, making grave eye contact with his student. “And make sure she takes _all_ of her materials with her.”

Byleth stuck out her tongue, an action that made Seteth quietly grit his teeth; she grinned impishly. Were he to admonish her, it would ruin the polished veneer of elegance he’d worked so hard to cultivate for her.

Straightening the long sleeves of his robes, he exited the curtain formally - by opening it just enough to pass through, then folding it back around himself swiftly and gracefully - and strode out of his study in a flurry of cloth.

The acolyte was left standing helplessly just inside the doorway, hands clasped in front of her. 

Byleth pursed her lips, wanting to dismiss the poor girl, but it was forbidden for the Holy Maiden to travel unaccompanied - even inside the monastery - except within her own rooms. So she swallowed her dissatisfaction, as she did countless times each day, and collected her notes and textbooks. She left her scripture book in the center of Seteth’s desk, a tiny rebellion that brought a smile to her lips.

Finally, she pulled up the hood of her snow-white robe, making sure all of her hair was inside, and drew down its attached veil. The fine lace tumbled lightly from her forehead to the base of her neck, obscuring the entirety of her face. Like always, Byleth felt a wall form around her heart along with it.

She was now Lady Byleth - formerly Eisner, though her last name had been stripped after her transformation - the Holy Maiden of the Church of Seiros, the vessel that housed the Goddess. According to several ancient rules she couldn’t keep memorized, nobody except the Archbishop and those who housed Saints were allowed to look upon her face directly, and that included other members of the Church.

“I’m ready,” she said, adopting an impassive voice once more. 

The acolyte scrambled to hold the curtain aside while keeping her gaze firmly on the floor. Up close, she could see that this novitiate was quite young indeed, no more than ten or eleven - the same age Byleth was when she’d been taken here, scared and alone and wondering why she no longer had a heartbeat.

But this girl housed no divine spirits; she was studying to enter the regular clergy, which would allow her to travel anywhere on the continent that had a Temple of Seiros. As nervous and awed as she was to be in the presence of the Holy Maiden, Byleth was in far more awe of _her_ prospects.

They entered the hallway in silence, the acolyte remaining two steps behind as was proper. This time of day, mid-afternoon, there weren’t many people frequenting Seteth’s rooms; the higher clergy were preparing for evening prayer, while the lower finished their students’ lessons for the day. Additionally, the Saints’ rooms were connected to each other’s and the Holy Maiden’s via a rectangular hallway that was rarely used save for messengers and the inhabitants themselves. Because of this, Byleth rarely saw anyone on her daily travels from her chambers, to the main temple, to Seteth’s study, and then back to her chambers - and today was no different.

When they reached Byleth’s personal area, the acolyte bowed again, so deeply she stumbled slightly, and then scampered off, tight-lipped and pale. The slight sounds she’d contributed to the atmosphere - a light footfall, a shallow breath - went with her, and then Byleth was shrouded in both silence and lace.

This careful routine, surrounded by people who both didn’t know her and couldn’t see her, had been the entirety of her life for the past ten years. Ever since she’d woken up one morning with green hair, green eyes, and no pulse - symbols of the Goddess’s presence, the Church had said, as they took her from her father and wrapped her up in silk to be enshrined and isolated within Garreg Mach Monastery. 

She opened her heavy wooden door, waited an appropriate amount of time for the messenger to be out of earshot, and then slammed it with all her might.

\---

The hailstorm ended as the monastery’s evening prayer bells echoed vibrantly into Byleth’s open windows. This was the time she loved the most; her rooms, high on the north side of the monastery’s main tower, were positioned just right to receive the resonant tones from the bell tower, probably by design. 

Her main living space, a recessed, rectangular room connected to her bedroom, study, and washing chamber, had wide, sliding window panes on both outward facing walls. If she threw them both open and drew aside the thin white curtains, she could watch the sun rise over the great capital city of Fhirdiad in the east, or set over the vast expanse of royal forest to the west.

The other reason she loved this time of day carried clearly from the main temple; Archbishop Rhea’s sterling voice, leading the choir as the evening prayer service began, meant that she was far across the monastery grounds and would be occupied for at least the next few hours. The only two other people who could enter the Holy Maiden’s chambers - Seteth, who housed Saint Cichol, and his daughter Flayn, who housed Saint Cethleann - would also be present. 

And so Byleth began preparations for her favorite activity: escaping. 

She wriggled out of the long, layered white robes of the higher clergy and into a simple nun’s habit, tucking her conspicuous hair into a cotton coif. If anyone saw her - and they rarely did, as she’d become adept at sneaking around over the years - they would think her a regular Sister. Lots of people had green eyes, after all, and very few knew what the Holy Maiden’s face looked like under the veil. As long as Rhea, Seteth, and Flayn were occupied, she could wander the grounds with near impunity.

But it wasn’t the grounds that she meant to explore tonight. The day’s hailstorm had sounded intense, and she still worried for the cats that inhabited the land around the monastery. She packed a leather satchel with dried meat, twine, and her favorite book, intending to do some fishing in the nearby forest lake and leave her catch out for the cats.

She then pried up a loose floorboard by her bed and retrieved her blade - a knight’s longsword, a gift from her father for her tenth birthday, carefully hidden and maintained - and buckled it on, covering it and the satchel with a heavy cloak of gray wool. 

Rhea indulged her desire for weapons training whenever the constant duties of Archbishop allowed it, but that wasn’t nearly often enough for Byleth. In the forest, with no one around, she could practice stances and swings on unsuspecting trees without fear of chastisement.

The final touch, an empty wicker basket to convince onlookers that she was just a lowly nun gathering herbs, completed her ensemble, and she quietly peered out into the hallway. It was a cursory gesture, since most of the monastery’s residents were currently occupied, but she thought it better to be safe.

A discrete corner staircase for the Archbishop’s personal use made the perfect path down the tower, complete with its own exit near the forest-facing wall of the monastery. Of course, both the tower doors and the wall’s small side gate were always locked and Byleth did not possess the keys, but after a rigorous summer when she was thirteen spent fashioning and breaking homemade lockpicks, such trivialities no longer stopped her. 

She cast a practiced eye over her shoulder as the iron wall gate creaked open, confirmed her solitude, and slipped out.

Freshly fallen hail crunched under her boots, mingling with last week’s waning snowfall. She was glad she chose tonight to come out; tomorrow, when the midday sun melted the hailstones and then the bitter night chilled them again, the dirt path she walked now would be nothing but frozen mud. It was only a short walk from the wall to the treeline, where the path would be protected by canopy, but dangerous nonetheless. Explaining how she’d twisted or broken her ankle while supposedly studying in her room would be a hard sell, even to Flayn.

When she was safely inside the forest, surrounded by all its usual nighttime sounds instead of the faint echoes of evening prayer, she allowed her shoulders to relax and her pace to slow. With each step she took, the chances of running into another person grew slimmer, and the odds of a person being Church-affiliated were slimmer still. Sometimes she ran across children from Fhirdiad playing games, or foragers from surrounding villages, but they all assumed her to be a Sister of the Temple - and the part was easy to play.

She hummed a lively tune as she walked, not a stuffy hymn but a tavern song she’d overheard from her father’s fellow knights when she was young. The bawdy lyrics, wholly inappropriate for a child to hear in retrospect, had mostly faded from her mind, but the melody remained. She used it now to call the cats out from their hiding places and reminisce on simpler days.

But tonight, none of the cats answered her call. A hazy sense of unease followed her down the path until eventually she stopped, her song trailing off, and realized she was still alone. By now, she was usually surrounded by at least a dozen swishing tails and mewling cries, wet noses sniffing at her satchel for treats.

She turned in a full circle, scanning the forest and listening for approaching paws, but saw only the dark outlines of trees, heard only the rustling of leaves. No meows, but also none of the typical night birds or insects; something was wrong.

And then a distant wolf’s howl, sounding from the direction of the lake, broke the silence. 

A current of panic raced up Byleth’s spine like a bolt of lightning, and just as potent; for an instant, her vision whited out, replaced by a scene of fresh snowfall smattered with tiny droplets of bright red blood. Beyond the arc of blood spray, a shaggy gray wolf held a dark-haired man by the neck, pinning him to the ground while his hands struggled to pry apart the creature’s jaws - a sick crunch ended the vision, snapping her back into her own sight.

Byleth ran. She knew what this was, this vice-grip on her still heart, this energetic burn that spurred her to action; an omen, the most potent of the Goddess’s gifts, a measure of foresight that allowed her vessels to divert imminent tragedy. She’d felt it only once before, immediately preceding a fire that had consumed most of the monastery’s archive hall. After warning Rhea, they had been able to evacuate the hall in time to prevent any casualties, but the vision shown to her - of smoke rising from charred corpses - still haunted her nightmares.

She diverted from the main path and onto a game trail shortcut to the lake, abandoning her basket when it caught on a passing bough. Last time, they’d had mere minutes to act; she had no time to care for the brush that left tiny cuts on her hands and arms, or the skeletal branch that ripped the coif from her head, freeing her long hair to stream behind her like a banner.

Byleth drew her sword, using her forearms to shield her face as she broke through the underbrush to the lakeside, skidding along the icy ground. She whipped her head around the white and brown landscape, searching for the teal clothing she’d seen in her vision - and found it in the shadow of an old oak, nothing but a smudge of blue on white at this distance.

The man waved a torch in a wide arc before him, driving back a white-furred wolf dyed orange in the firelight. _Not gray_ , she thought as she raced toward the skirmish, searching the treeline. Two more wolves crept around the man, aiming to flank: a lithe, mottled brown, and the big gray that would soon claim his life.

She watched as the man advanced on the white wolf, delivering a savage slash to its neck with his longsword; the animal fell, wheezing, but then the man stumbled, clutching at his left side. He was already injured, she realized, as his hand came away stained with red. Byleth willed her legs to move faster, ignoring the cramp in her abdomen, cursing her pathetic stamina.

The brown wolf took its chance to leap from the brush, sprinting low at its target. 

“Come on!” The man shouted, a ferocious challenge, and planted his feet firmly in the snow. Now that she was closer, Byleth saw the streaks of dirt and dried blood on his face, the grim set of his jaw and the wild defiance in his eyes - this was a man who knew the gravity of his position. The wolf darted around the thrust of his torch, going for his ankles, but the man caught it in the stomach with his foot instead, sending it sprawling. He finished it off with an efficiently brutal stab through its chest.

But there was one more. The shaggy gray approached its victim, panting clouds of white into the air as the man staggered backward and grunted. He looked around desperately for an advantage as the wolf’s leisurely stride turned to a lope - and locked eyes with Byleth flying across the snow, sword drawn and poised to strike.

She saw only the briefest glimpse of shock on his face before she blew past him, extending her free hand and expelling a brilliant gout of flame into the gray wolf’s face, then ducking low and letting its forward momentum carry it onto the end of her blade. It sank down, flame-blinded and impaled, and sighed a final, humid breath onto her forearm. She mouthed a prayer for it as it slumped to the ground.

Byleth straightened up again, dragging her sword free, wiping it off on the snow, and then turning to face the wolf’s would-be dinner.

The man’s eyes, dull and unfocused from blood loss, regarded her suspiciously. “Who are you?” He demanded, but his intimidating voice was undermined by the way he swayed on his feet, clutching at a dark red blotch on his coat.

She hesitated for only a second, too blinded by urgency to give any thought to prudence. “Bel,” she said, instinctively giving her childhood nickname. 

Despite his alarmed warning glare, she hoisted one of his arms over her shoulder and wrapped one of hers around his middle. “I mean you no harm,” she said, but his body remained tense, teeth clenched against the pain of his injuries. 

“Scavengers will come for those wolves,” she insisted. “We should move to the far side of the lake.”

Perhaps realizing the danger of his circumstances, the man eventually relented, relaxing against her side and letting her assume some of his weight. They walked with an awkward double gait toward her destination - a small shelter she’d built years ago as a snow-break and a place to cook her day’s catch.

He was silent the entire way. Byleth could practically see the adrenaline draining out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that dragged on every part of his body. He must have been out here for days, judging from the condition of his clothing and wounds.

Byleth eased him into a sitting position inside the shelter, making sure he was well within its overhang of laced branches, and set about gathering dry wood. He leaned back, groaning in relief, and his eyes fell shut.

It was only when she casted about for something that could hold water, spied the waterskin at the man’s belt, and leaned forward to unhook it that the reality of her predicament really set in.

Lady Byleth, the Holy Maiden of the Church of Seiros, the vessel that housed the Goddess...had been seen. By a man; a man who was not even clergy; a man who’d witnessed her performing holy magic. And she was now leaning over that man, physically closer to him than she’d been to any layperson in the last ten years, and _Rhea was going to kill her_.

She fell backward into the snow, struck dumb with the volume of her sins, waterskin clutched in her trembling hands. Looking down, she noticed the dozens of small cuts criss-crossing her lower arms for the first time, felt the sting of the cold in them. Conflicted, she looked back to her charge - for that was what he was, now that she’d assumed the responsibility of his life - at the grimace of pain frozen on his face, the labored rise and fall of his chest, and stubbornly stomped down her fears.

He needed help. Even if she’d broken dozens of stupid, ancient rules just now, she knew that she was right. The Goddess did not grant omens frivolously.

Byleth pushed herself to her feet and jogged to the river that fed the lake, swiftly filling the waterskin - wincing when the icy water hit her hands - and snatching up an armful of dry sticks, then hurrying back to the shelter. 

The man had fully sagged against the wall, breaths coming shallowly. She knelt beside him, used her holy magic improperly again to ignite the wood inside the fire pit, and shook his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, and the man’s eyes opened groggily. “Sit up and drink this.”

He gave the waterskin an uncertain glance, but obeyed. She helped him raise it to his lips and he took several greedy gulps before stopping to breathe, keeping one eye on her the whole time.

Reaching for the buckles of his coat, though, seemed to be the line. His hand shot up to grasp her wrist; he said nothing, but the implication was clear.

“I need to clean your wounds,” she explained impatiently. “Can you do it yourself?” She hoped her voice sounded authoritative and not as nervous as she felt. Really, she’d only read about medical aid in textbooks, but never actually performed it - living in isolation didn’t provide many opportunities for injury.

The man narrowed his eyes indignantly, but released her wrist. He even shifted so she could peel the coat, padded shirt, and undershirt from his torso. He shuddered in the cold, moving closer to the fire. Byleth fed more sticks into it.

“You’re with the Church?” He asked curtly, perhaps to distract from his current state.

Byleth splashed water over the punctures and slashes on his front, trying aggressively to clean him without noticing any of his bare skin; it wasn’t working. 

“Uh- yes,” she said, fishing around in her bag with one hand and retrieving the parcel of dried meat. “Eat this.” The suggestion was partially for her and partially for him; for him because he probably hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days; for her, because splitting her attention three ways among cleaning, avoiding, and talking was frying her already-stressed composure.

His back, curiously, had no wounds - but she did notice a familiar symbol engraved in his sword belt, one that tugged at a memory of Seteth’s history lectures. It hit her while she was rinsing a particularly deep gash on his shoulder: it was a family crest, one from Fhirdiad’s nobility. The one that kind of looked like a shield was called-

“And you’re with House Fraldarius?” She asked in kind. 

He looked up from the meat, swallowing a mouthful. Byleth noticed involuntarily that his eyes were the same color as the fire, and then mentally kicked herself. 

“I am. Felix,” he offered. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

She drew back, shocked to hear him speak a full sentence. “Only if you want to,” she said wryly to answer his put-upon tone, ducking her head again before continuing, “Nice to meet you, though, Felix.” 

The wide, giddy grin on her face was, mercifully, hidden; he didn’t need to know that the mere act of greeting someone by name could spark such glee in her.

Byleth sat back on her heels to inspect her work, dismayed to find that fresh blood was already oozing from some of the deeper wounds. She could sacrifice her habit for bandages, but she was planning to leave her cloak with him and didn’t fancy sneaking back into the monastery wearing nothing but a shift and leggings. And his clothing was unusable, as dirty and torn as it was. 

She looked down at her hands, contemplating how many more ancient rules she was willing to break tonight.

“Everything all right?” Felix asked, setting aside the now-empty parcel.

Byleth lifted her head. “Yes. I only-” she hesitated, and resented her own hesitation - the Goddess’s vessel should not _hesitate_ when providing aid. “I’m going to heal you now.” 

He raised one eyebrow, glancing between her determined expression and the way she was brandishing her hands. “Aren’t you already-” he froze mid-sentence when a wispy blue aura manifested around her like a candle’s flame, lifting the hair from her shoulders and distributing it in a halo around her head.

She felt the divine power well up in her, coalescing in her hands, warm and heavy as an embrace. She guided that power to Felix’s chest, pushing a portion of it gently into him. Within seconds, his wounds began to knit together, leaving no trace of their former gruesomeness.

Byleth exhaled, grounding herself in the otherworldly current, and suppressed her power again, feeling it sink back down into that place in her soul where the Goddess dwelled. Her hair fell limply back to her shoulders, her blue, iridescent aura dissipating harmlessly into the air like smoke.

Felix, in the meantime, was prodding the once-torn flesh on his shoulder, eyes growing wider by the second. He looked up sharply, searching her face for the answer, then back down at his newly mended skin.

“How did you-” he began, mildly panicked, but his voice broke and he had to pause to clear his throat. “ _What_ did you do?”

She tilted her head, not fully understanding the question. She’d thought for sure that he would recognize who she was at not one, but _two_ displays of magic, not to mention seeing her long green hair - but then again, he _was_ pretty delirious with pain and blood loss when she’d summoned the fire.

Still, though, she thought, didn’t everyone in Faerghus know that the Holy Maiden could perform miracles?

“I healed you,” she repeated slowly. “Are you- are you familiar with the Church?”

Felix made a low, disgusted sound in his throat. “No. Can all of you do that?”

“No,” Byleth answered, evasive and airy. “Anyway, you’re welcome.”

He grunted, giving himself one final check-over before lowering his hands to his lap, seeming to accept things. “It was useful, I’ll give you that. Bel, was it?” He peered around for the waterskin, taking it and finishing off its contents. “Impressive swordplay.”

A small tremor buzzed its way through her heart; nobody had complimented her like that before. In her capacity as a vessel, sure, people offered up platitudes regularly, but never for anything she actually _cared_ about.

“Thanks. My father taught me.” She fondly recalled the morning of her first hunt, the pride on Jeralt’s face when she’d taken down a buck on horseback at the age of nine. He’d been half-ready to pronounce her a squire there and then - and he did intend to as soon as she’d reached ten years of age. If only-

If only.

“Mine, too,” Felix said, and there was a thread of her same sadness in his voice. She met his gaze, intending to ask after it, but he coughed into his fist and looked away. 

“How close are we to Fhirdiad?” He asked brusquely.

Byleth turned to gaze out over the lake. “Five miles, give or take. There’s a path on the other side that will take you by Garreg Mach.”

He cursed under his breath. “I was so close,” he muttered, scowling into the darkness, and made to rise. “Well, I can still make it back tonight.”

Though eager to help him, he had spoken quite rudely to her at several points during this conversation, and so Byleth allowed him to discover the potency and aftereffects of the Goddess’s power for himself.

He never made it to his feet; as soon as he put weight on one leg, he wavered and toppled over, landing hard on his backside. She winced in sympathy at the impact, giving him a tight-lipped smile when he shot her a glare.

“What did you do to me?” He accused in a sudden return to his earlier, untrusting state.

Byleth sighed. “This gift only speeds up your natural recovery processes. All the strength you would have spent over a period of weeks, you instead spent all at once. It will take several days to replenish it.”

“ _Days_ ?” He looked at her as if _she_ were the one that had torn his body to shreds.

“Optimistically,” she said dryly. 

He ran a restless hand through his hair, freeing a few strands from its tie, and had the grace to look ashamed for his words. “Okay, fine. ‘Days’ is better than ‘weeks.’”

Byleth, stunned and slightly irritated, hadn’t heard someone distill the Goddess’s power so casually before. She cocked her head to the side as if to say, _you think?_

To this, Felix snorted. “Sorry. I’ve just never experienced-”

“Holy magic,” she supplied.

“-that,” he said, gesturing vaguely to Byleth’s entire body. “I thought you Church people just did that trick with your blood. You know.”

“Auguries and oracles,” Byleth said incredulously, feeling her forehead crease into a frown. Never had she felt the urge to _defend_ the Church’s practices to anyone.

Felix nodded absently. “Right. Those. I’ve never been very religious.”

A part of her wanted to explain the intricacies and differences between an augury and an oracle, and the immense utility each could have in one’s everyday life, but then another, horrified part of her realized that she would be doing to Felix what Seteth did to her daily - and so she kept her mouth shut.

“How did a nun get so far outside Garreg Mach, anyway?” He asked, feeding more wood to the fire. “I thought you all liked to stay inside the walls, staring at your divine vessel, or something.”

Byleth was turning around on his Church illiteracy; far from being offended, she thought his appraisal quite accurate. “That’s true,” she said. “I’m not really supposed to be out here. Most of the congregation is in evening prayer right now.”

The simple honesty of her statement caught them both off guard; Byleth blinked rapidly, drawing her knees up to her chest, while Felix surveyed the shelter and fire pit as though he were seeing them for the first time.

“You come here often,” he intuited, smirking when she flinched. “I’m not criticizing you. In fact, I find your disobedience refreshing.”

She met his eyes over the fire, their hue magnified and underlit by the orange glow, and felt that if she opened her mouth now, all of her secrets would come tumbling out, rolling in a queue from a hidden place in her heart. Perhaps it was the abnormality of the situation making her so candid; sitting with a stranger in the dark, with one light source illuminating the world, made it seem as though nothing else was real.

Her lips parted and she took a breath, intending to open the floodgates, but then Felix shivered and reminded her that he was injured and inadequately dressed - at night - in the onset of Faerghus winter.

She fumbled with the clasps of her cloak, quietly reprimanding her own selfishness, then handed it to him around the fire. She pushed it persistently toward him when he shook his head. “I know the way to the monastery well, and I have more than one cloak. _You_ will be out here all night with only your ruined coat.”

His obstinate expression softened somewhat, averted eyes flicking back to her. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took the thick wool garment from her hands, draping it across his shoulders and pulling it tight. “Thank you,” he ground out, sounding unused to the phrase. 

A warm smile spread across Byleth’s face. She knew she’d judged this man correctly. “So you _do_ know how to be grateful.”

His walls came up again, shoulders hunching, and Byleth understood the impulse - a retreat from vulnerability. 

“Of course I do. Stop staring at me,” he spat, reminding her strongly of the more feral cats that wandered the forest, the ones that took great patience and care in order to approach.

Luckily for him, Byleth was both patient and careful.

She stood, brushing the snow from her legs, and took stock of the shelter. “I can get more wood and refill your waterskin, but I won’t be able to bring you food until tomorrow evening.”

Felix shrugged. “I’ve gone far longer without a meal.” He frowned into the fire, wrapping the cloak more snugly around himself. “Don’t put your position in peril because of me. I can fend for myself.”

Now that she’d thought about it once, the resemblance was uncanny. All he needed was a fluffed-up tail and flattened ears.

Byleth laughed a little puff of steam into the cold air, covering her mouth with her hand. Felix looked on, helplessly confused at her reaction as she gathered the resources he’d need for the night and set them within easy reach of the fire pit. 

“I will see you tomorrow, Felix,” she said when she was done, and departed without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Seteth is such a donut." - my husband, after reading this

Halfway down the game trail, on her knees and feeling around the undergrowth for her lost coif and basket, Byleth had to accept that her situation was precarious. 

Having lost the cover for her hair, any member of the Church would know her identity on sight. And having lost the cover for her sword belt, _that_ secret would be out, as well. 

She sank dejectedly into the grass. Overhead, the moon hadn’t yet traveled one-quarter of its nightly path, but already the evening prayer would be winding down; she had no more time to spare for searching. 

Frustrated, she stood and attempted to stuff the bulk of her waist-length hair under her collar, succeeding only in tangling it up in her augur spike’s chain. Cursing liberally, she gave up on the whole mess and resolved to just be _extra_ quiet upon re-entry. 

Nodding firmly, she started back along the path, wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing vigorously to stave off the cold.

The iron gate’s reedy whine - usually so miniscule a sound - blared in her ears as she pushed it open, setting her teeth on edge. She peeked around it, exposing as little of her head as possible, and swiftly looked in both directions; the direction of the temple was clear, lit only by moonlight and the occasional wall torch, but faint sounds and flickering shadows came from the direction of the dining hall.

Fortunately, the activity was confined to the hall itself as its staff prepared for dinner. What motion Byleth caught through its windows was turned inward, not out. She hastened across the gap between the wall and the residential tower, sliding her lockpicks into the side door.

She was careful to stomp the dirt and snow from her boots before climbing, as any blemish on the narrow, pristine staircase would certainly alert Rhea. As it always was at this hour, she found the upper landing and connected hallway dark and deserted, and made it back into her chambers with a hefty, relieved sigh.

Her sword and satchel went back to their hidden compartment in the floor; the habit, splattered with blood, she set to soaking in her bathtub, hoping she could get the stain out without having to pilfer a cleaning agent from the storage shed. In the meantime, she got as clean as she could without the use of her tub and changed into a long silk nightgown.

Finally, seated before the vanity in her bedroom, she brought her hair over one shoulder and began the painful and intricate process of disentangling it from a tiny silver chain. But when her comb’s sharp teeth scraped along one of the many cuts on her hands, she winced and dropped it, watching it clatter away with a deeper sense of loss than the situation warranted.

That man - the soldier in the forest - _Felix_ . Her bottom lip trembled at the memory of her omen; she knelt to pick up the comb, but instead remained on the floor, clutching her scratched-up hands to her chest. More than her fear of being caught, more than the bitterness of her captivity, she felt so immensely _grateful_ that tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. If she hadn’t been a vessel for the Goddess - if she hadn’t snuck out of the monastery tonight - that sharp-tongued, gentle-eyed man would be dead in the snow.

Her divine power flared to life, its wispy tendrils licking up the wounds on her hands and closing them instantly - perhaps, she thought, if she could use her abilities to help more people like tonight, she wouldn’t feel so trapped. Maybe she could even start to enjoy her role as the Holy Maiden, then.

A knock at the door interrupted her pondering. 

“Byleth?” Rhea’s satiny voice called from the hallway. “I have brought your dinner. I hoped we could talk.”

Byleth scrambled to pick up the comb and get to the door in a non-suspicious amount of time, composing her emotional state and trying to come up with a believable excuse for her hair.

“Come in,” she said, opening the door and backing up.

Rhea looked from the comb in Byleth’s hands to the disorder of her hair, and immediately went to set the tray down on the room’s central dining table. “Oh, dear child, what happened?” She asked fretfully, not waiting for an answer before taking the comb from Byleth’s hands and leading her back to the vanity. “Please, allow me.”

“Just a little accident,” Byleth said, watching Rhea in the mirror. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either, and the resulting pang of guilt twisted her stomach. The Saints’ vessels had been her only interpersonal contact for such a long time that she’d come to think of them as a surrogate family - and even though she misbehaved and snuck around to maintain her own sanity, she never enjoyed lying to them.

Rhea’s hands, soft and practiced with delicate work, plucked at the knots with a mother’s patience and the tangled strands separated as if by magic.

“What did you want to talk about?” Byleth prompted.

The hands in her hair stilled momentarily. “Seteth informed me that you were unfocused during your lesson today,” Rhea said, making brief eye contact with Byleth in the mirror. “Is there anything bothering you?”

_Aside from the wounded man convalescing at my secret forest shelter? Aside from my constant, crushing isolation?_

“The hail,” Byleth said instead, dropping her gaze to her augur spike. “I was worried for the cats.” Last week’s augury, the nick of the silver spike against hers and Flayn’s wrists, rose in her mind; twin drops of blood had fallen to the ground, forming an arcane pattern that told the story of an icy storm.

A gentle smile broke out on Rhea’s face. “I see. You and Flayn have such tender hearts.” She pulled the last twisted clump of hair free from the chain, then began combing through it, starting at the bottom. Though she remained silent, her face was troubled; eventually, tentative and quiet, she said, “I know that this life is not easy.”

Byleth grimaced internally. She’d heard some form of this speech from Seteth and Rhea so many times over the last decade, she could practically recite it by heart.

“But you are special, my darling one. Your soul harbors the Goddess’s own flame.” The fervent piety in Rhea’s voice never failed to shame Byleth and her deep-seated doubts. “ _You_ are meant to lead the Church, not I, but that cannot happen until you are ready.”

“Is that your way of telling me to pay more attention to Seteth’s lectures?” Byleth asked, masking her guilt with a light tone and a smile.

But Rhea just shook her head fondly, gathering Byleth’s hair to begin braiding it for bed. “Not exactly. There is something I wanted to ask you.” She tilted her head to the side, intent on her task. “As you know, Fhirdiad and the Church will be celebrating Founding Day at the end of the Red Wolf Moon. This will be the first time in over one hundred years that a Holy Maiden will be eligible to direct the ceremonies, as is traditional. Ten years ago, when you first came to us, you were much too young.”

Trepidation and excitement wound their way through Byleth’s gut.

“Would you consider taking my place this year?” Rhea asked, placing a hand on Byleth’s shoulder. “I will not pressure you, but I believe you are capable.”

The thought of seeing Fhirdiad again after a decade and walking its streets, hearing people talk about regular, non-religious things - even if she had to be veiled the whole time - made her tremble. “Yes!” Byleth replied, too loud, and then repeated in a more even tone, “Yes. I’ll do- whatever that entails.”

Rhea’s proud expression turned to pained disappointment. “Seteth said he covered the ceremonies with you today in your lesson. You were concerned for the cats to that extent?”

Byleth pulled her now-finished braid over her shoulder, running her fingers nervously over the plaits. “Our augury said it would be an unseasonable storm,” she explained, looking away to avoid the dispirited eyes in the mirror.

Instead of scolding her, Rhea only sighed, placing the comb back on the vanity. “I will ask him to go over them again tomorrow. Once you understand all of your holy duties for that day, I will hear your final answer in the temple.”

There weren’t many obligations Byleth could think of that would dissuade her from a sanctioned day outside the monastery, but she bowed her head in acquiescence nonetheless.

An approving smile touched lightly on Rhea’s face. “Goodnight, Byleth. Do not forget to eat your dinner,” she said, and then departed.

Byleth obeyed out of habit, sitting at her small dining table - big enough to seat herself and the Saints’ vessels, should they choose to eat together - and staring into a meal of grilled fish and vegetables. She poked at it with her fork, managing a few small bites, but her mind was a storm of mixed emotions.

The guilt over Rhea trusting her with such an important holiday just after Byleth had broken so many important rules gnawed at her stomach until she pushed the dish away, covering it and retreating to her bedroom once again. 

She was still sure that she’d done the right thing in saving Felix and caring for him. Her resolution went bone-deep, strong and steady - but it didn’t stop the guilt.

Byleth crawled into her wide bed and drew the heavy drapes around it, leaving her in total darkness.

\---

She woke, as ever, to the pre-dawn songs of the birds that nested high in the eaves of her balcony’s roof. Byleth rolled eagerly out of bed and opened the windows in her bedroom and living room to hear them better. The sky had just begun to lighten, casting a pale blue hue over the stone structures of Fhirdiad.

A thrill ran through her. At the end of the month, she’d see those buildings up close.

With light, eager steps, she went to scrub the blood from her habit, happy to find that she’d started soaking it in time to get it all out. While she paced the length of her balcony looking for a place to hang it that was out of sight of both the servants and the other towers’ balconies, her front door opened.

She whipped around, hiding the disguise behind her back, but then immediately relaxed. “Flayn!” She admonished, holding up her illicit garment. “You scared me half to death!”

The green-haired girl in question grinned innocently and shut the door behind her. “Had a bit of fun last night, did you?” She crossed the room and joined Byleth on her search, pointing out a likely spot on the wall. “If you hang it here, it will be hidden while your window shutter is open.”

Byleth shot her best and only friend a mischievous smile. “Why, I could almost guess that you’d done this before,” she said in a lilting tone, and both girls giggled. On nights when both Seteth and Rhea were engaged in business or ritual, Byleth took Flayn with her to the lake; it was a rare occurrence, since her father kept such a close eye on her whereabouts.

“What did you catch this time?” Flayn asked casually, clasping her hands behind her back. “And how fared the cats?”

This question, a morning tradition between the two of them, usually received a quick answer, but today Byleth was silent. Her mouth screwed up into a wavering half-smile, almost certainly grotesque in its execution.

“Actually, something extraordinary happened,” she whispered, hanging up her habit and then taking both of Flayn’s hands. “Let me tell you about it while I bathe.”

Her friend followed, mystified by the promise of an interesting story, and dragged a chair to the bathing chamber door in order to sit outside it. “Well, Byleth! You cannot just keep me in suspense like this!” She exclaimed, resting her elbows on her knees.

Byleth laughed as her tub filled with warm water, the first bit of joy she’d allowed herself since her strange encounter at the lake. “Sothis showed me an omen in the forest,” she began, unbraiding her hair and stepping into the water. “Someone’s death - a man, to a wolf. So I killed the wolf and saved the man.”

A beat of silence passed, and Byleth could picture the dumbfounded expression on her friend’s face.

“That- that sounds incredibly scary and dangerous,” Flayn said, more subdued than before. “But his life was spared?”

“Yes. He’s resting in my fishing shelter.”

“Oh, that is a relief,” Flayn said, and then gasped like a thought had just come to her. “The way you dress when you go out! Did he see your face?”

In the midst of lathering soap into her hair, Byleth snorted, displacing some of the bubbles atop her bathwater. “He saw my face _and_ my hair. And I healed him.” 

“Goodness!” Flayn’s voice was delighted in a deeply scandalized way. “How positively improper!” She took a deep breath. “But you _did_ receive an omen. If you think about it, the Goddess herself gave him permission to view you.”

Byleth rinsed herself off and stepped out of the tub, pulling on a thick robe and grabbing a towel for her hair. “You know, I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

She opened the bathing chamber door to find her friend resting her chin in her hands, staring out the window with a dreamy smile.

“Oh, I am so jealous. To have a fated meeting under the moonlight,” Flayn said longingly, turning her eyes - a brighter green than Byleth’s - upward. “Is he handsome? What is his name? Does he live in Fhirdiad?”

The barrage of questions dazed her; she wrapped up her hair in the towel, going to sit at her dining table. “His name is Felix. He’s a knight for House Fraldarius.”

Flayn fixed her with a severe look and joined her at the table.

“And he’s very handsome,” Byleth muttered, feeling heat building in her cheeks. 

A drawn-out, wistful sigh escaped Flayn’s mouth. “Was this handsome knight simply paralyzed with awe at being treated by the Holy Maiden herself?”

Byleth coughed, trying not to laugh at the memory of Felix’s ignorance of everything Church-related. “Actually, he didn’t know who I was.”

The surprise on Flayn’s face mirrored her own from last night. “Truly? There are those who cannot recognize a divine vessel?”

Shrugging, Byleth tactically failed to mention the part where she’d given her name as ‘Bel.’ She still didn’t know why she’d said that; the old nickname pained her to remember, and she didn’t even allow Flayn, who was as good as a sister to her, to use it.

The two continued their typical morning chat, with Flayn pressing for details and Byleth deflecting, until the servants came around with their breakfast - and then Flayn kept right on pestering her, but with a mouthful of food.

“At least tell me if you intend to visit him again,” Flayn persisted. “Please? Nothing exciting ever happens at the monastery. I _need_ to _know_.”

Byleth unwrapped her hair, finding it sufficiently dry, and went to retrieve her veiled robes. She let Flayn wait in suspended frustration until she returned, hair pulled back and folded within her hood.

“I’m going to see him again tonight,” she said, pursing her lips to keep from smiling, and flipped down her veil.

The ecstatic squeal that came out of Flayn in answer was probably audible from the main temple.

\---

Seteth was already waiting for her in his study when she entered.

“I am disappointed that you left your scriptures behind yesterday,” he said as soon as she was seated at his desk, skipping even a greeting. “And yet I was glad to hear that you are interested in participating in Founding Day.”

He appraised her appearance, nodding when he found no faults. “So I suppose my attitude is neutral this morning. Let us strive to make it positive.”

Byleth’s mood couldn’t be shaken; she gave him a broad grin in return as she unwound her hair from her hood and smoothed it down. “A blessed morning to you as well, Seteth.”

He answered her with the faintest hint of a smile, a crinkle of his eyes, and set a fresh sheaf of note-taking parchment in front of her. “Today we are covering Founding Day traditions. Again.”

She settled in with considerably more patience than the previous morning, unpacking her quill and binding up her long sleeves so that they wouldn’t drag in the ink. 

“Normally, there would only be two ceremonies for you to conduct: the Anointing of Loog and the Gift of the Goddess. However, since you have not yet been introduced to the nobility, there must be an additional ceremony before the others: the Induction.” Seteth took up his customary pacing as he spoke, looking over occasionally to make sure his student was taking notes.

Byleth scribbled with a fiery passion, determined to be worthy of this chance. “I get to meet the nobility?” She asked, looking up while she re-dipped her quill.

“Yes. Normally this would not happen until your twenty-fifth birthday, but Rhea is granting a special dispensation since we have gone so long without a Holy Maiden,” he said, retrieving a rolled-up scroll from a cabinet and securing it to the wall. “The Induction will be held at Castle Blaiddyd. All of the ranked aristocracy and their heirs will receive your blessing and Rhea’s. After attaining both blessings, they will be allowed to look upon your face.”

Byleth’s quill came to a sudden stop. “I can- they can-” she floundered for a rational string of words, her breath coming fast and a mountain of possibilities building in her mind. “May I speak with them? Will it be like it is with you and Flayn?”

Her elation was contagious; a genuine smile bloomed on Seteth’s face. “Not exactly, but the Archbishop, the Saints, and the Holy Maiden are legal peers of the nobility, so you may indeed speak with them in formal settings thereafter.”

“What counts as a formal setting?” She asked, making a subsection in her notes.

He tapped the scroll on the wall; Byleth looked over, seeing that it was a district map of Fhirdiad. “I will answer your questions once you have heard a complete overview of the ceremonies,” he said, stern tone leaving no room for argument. Byleth’s enthusiasm - and the tip of her quill - dipped a bit, but she remained attentive.

“The Induction happens behind closed doors. Afterward, we proceed to the royal gardens for the Anointing of Loog, where the Holy Maiden makes a gift of holy water to the current monarch in the same fashion that the Goddess granted power to Loog.” Seteth regarded the map thoughtfully. Byleth thought she knew what he was thinking, since she wondered the same thing: if there was no monarch, who would receive the gift? 

“The Regent is still of House Blaiddyd, so there should be no problems,” he mused, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “But I will recommend to Rhea that we use the Crown Prince instead. He fits the role of Loog much better than his-” Seteth paused, perhaps reining himself in from saying something inappropriate, “- _worldly_ uncle.”

Byleth frowned at her teacher, trying to understand what he was implying about Lord Rufus, but nevertheless agreed with his assessment; it might be less stressful to conduct a complicated ritual with someone her own age.

“Though I could say the opposite for the role of Kyphon,” Seteth muttered, squinting at the map.

It looked like he could possibly change his mind, so Byleth quickly said, “If I am to be peers with the nobles, wouldn’t this be a fortuitous start to a friendship with the prince?”

“Hm?” Seteth looked up, blinking himself out of this thoughts, then seemed to process what she’d said. “Ah, yes, that is an excellent point. After he is crowned King, you, he, and Rhea will be seeing much of each other, after all. It could only be beneficial to start building that relationship now.”

Byleth exhaled in relief.

Pointing out the royal gardens on the map, Seteth continued, “After the Anointing, the Holy Maiden performs the Gift of the Goddess for the assembled nobles. It is a sacred dance that refreshes the Goddess’s blessings on both the land and the monarch.”

Byleth seized up again. “A dance?”

“A _sacred_ dance,” Seteth emphasized. “It is not so different from the harvest and solstice dances that the four of us perform in the temple.”

She frowned up at her teacher. “Yes, but _those_ dances are done without an audience.”

Seteth’s brows rose in understanding. “I see. You worry for your lack of experience in appearing before others.”

 _Whose fault is that?_ She wanted to retort, but bit her tongue.

“If it helps, I was much the same before my own Induction,” Seteth said, smiling as he reminisced. “I found that, as a member of the clergy, it is permissible to keep quiet in many situations; laymen often think you are pious and wise for it, instead of unsociable.”

Despite her anxiety, Byleth had to laugh at the mental image of Seteth being nervous in any setting, as she’d only ever known him as a stoic father figure. “It does help. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Seteth hesitated a moment before continuing, “This is a big step for you, Byleth. It signals the beginning of your dealings with Fhirdiad. If you do not feel ready, please tell Rhea as much.”

If he’d said those words to her even a day prior, Byleth felt she would have taken this chance to avoid responsibility. But now, after last night, she looked at the world through new eyes. Eager eyes.

“I can do it,” she said, and meant it. _I can kill a wolf. I can save a life_.

\---

The main temple, a two-thousand-year-old structure of artfully carved wooden arches, dominated the central area of the monastery. It was surrounded by gardens on all sides, each growing a different staple of the clergy’s diet, and those gardens were each bisected by a wide stone pathway that led to one of the temple’s four entrances. 

Inside, a small entryway opened up into a vaulted atrium, its roof made of countless, outward-curving wood segments that let in light but diverted rain, casting every other row of pews in saturated golden sunlight. Beyond them was a raised dais that held most of the temple’s main rituals - and beyond _that_ was an ornate door, painted with the likenesses of the Four Saints, to which Rhea had the only key.

Byleth stood inside that door now, looking up at shelves upon shelves of holy relics and ceremonial items: robes, headdresses, scepters, daggers, incensories; she craned her neck to see the tops of the shelves, itching to climb the nearby ladder and see what else was up there, but past experience with similar curiosities told her that would probably get her in trouble.

“-I am simply thrilled that you decided to accept,” Rhea was saying, and Byleth honed back in on the words, tearing her eyes away from the mysterious array of items. “I can begin teaching you the Gift of the Goddess right away; please attend your daily lessons here, with me, for the time being.”

Rhea re-emerged from the rows of shelves holding a delicate-looking ivory gown of silk and muslin; when it swayed even slightly, its outer layers fluttered as if they could fly away. Gold thread trimmed each individual muslin layer, creating the illusion of petals, or-

 _Wings_ , Byleth realized. It made sense; the dance _was_ supposed to invoke imagery of the Goddess. “Okay,” Byleth agreed absently, watching the way the light caught on the trim.

Rhea smiled, hanging the gown closer to the door. “Come. We do not have the time to begin practice today, but I will perform the dance once in its entirety.”

\---

She nearly tripped over the hem of her robe while arranging her supplies for the lake, spurred on by the insistent echoes of the evening bells bouncing around her room.

Grunting in frustration, she pulled the robe over her head, yelping when her hair caught on her veil strings. Late. She was going to be _late_ to see Felix, all because Rhea insisted on showing her that stupid dance _three times_ -

But it wasn’t as if she could say that she had a very important appointment to get to. _Oh, please excuse me, Archbishop, but I have a man to care for in the forest._

Byleth laughed at the absurdity of the thought, packing more dried meat, a sewing kit, and a thick scarf into her newly procured basket, then climbing impatiently into her disguise. She bundled up in a coif and a dark wool cloak, also newly procured, and took a few deep, steadying breaths before sneaking downstairs.

It was no longer time to be Lady Byleth. It was time to be Bel, slayer of wolves.

Once clear of the monastery walls, she set off at a brisk pace toward the lake, watching her footing for any frozen bits of path. She started humming inside the treeline, but just like last night, none of the usual forest cats came out to greet her.

She worried that they might have been chased off by the wolves - or worse, fallen prey to them - until she reached her shelter and saw them; a dozen pairs of eyes, shining and saucer-wide inside the brush, watching Felix like he was an intruder. 

“They live here,” she explained, setting down her supplies. “Sometimes I catch fish for them.”

Felix seemed unbothered by the cats, instead staring at Byleth over the fire in vague surprise. “Bel. You came back,” he observed.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” She opened her satchel, unpacking everything she’d need to make a fishing rod. 

“You did.” He paused, sounding frustrated. “I’m just not used to people following through.”

Byleth looked up from her work to find his gaze far away and dark, as if he were remembering something unpleasant. “How was your day?” She prompted gently, looking around for his waterskin and stock of firewood; both were recently replenished. “I see you’ve been up. Feeling better?”

He made a noncommittal grunt and rolled his shoulders beneath his cloak. “It was boring. But I made it to the river and back, at least,” he said, nodding to his clothing, which looked freshly scrubbed and drying by the fire. With no access to proper cleaning agents, the bloodstains remained in the fabric, but it would be serviceable for warmth once dry.

“What’s with the hat?” He asked, gesturing to her head.

Byleth continued setting out her tools, sifting through the wood pile for a suitable rod. “Coif,” she corrected. “I was wearing one last time, too, but I lost it. You’re not supposed to see my hair.” _Or my face,_ she thought, pulling a likely stick from the bunch. She unspooled enough twine for a line and tied it to the end of the stick.

“But I did,” Felix said, confused. “Does it still matter?”

She shot him a wry smile. “It’s the _principle_ ,” she said, testing the strength of the line, finding it sufficient, and looping in a bent nail at the end. “Can you mend a seam?”

“Well enough.” 

Byleth tossed her sewing kit over the fire; scarred arms darted lightning-fast out of his cloak to catch it. 

“Good,” she said, sitting and turning her back. She stuck some dried meat onto her makeshift rod and cast it out into the lake, pulling it back toward her with irregular, jerky motions.

They fell into a companionable silence as both attended to their tasks, only broken by the occasional impatient meow. Byleth tossed some of the dried meat off into the treeline, chuckling at the resulting scuffle.

“I’ve been thinking,” Felix said after a while. “You don’t act like a nun.”

Byleth tossed a glance over her shoulder, caught between irritation and satisfaction. “Thank you?”

“No, I mean-” he clicked his tongue, pointing to her sword belt. “You speak crudely and carry a sword like a knight. You sneak into the woods to fish and feed cats.”

The scales tipped decisively toward irritation. “I certainly rescue damsels like a knight,” she said breezily. He scoffed and then a stick sailed past her head, landing with a plop in the lake.

“I wasn’t born into the Church,” Byleth said more somberly, casting her line again. “My life was more like this, before.”

After a few moments and a rustle of cloth, Felix settled on her side of the fire; not next to her, exactly, but closer. An acknowledgement.

“What about you?” She asked, turning her head slightly in his direction. “What is your life like when you’re not being hunted by wolves?”

His hands never stilled over the many tears in his coat, but his eyes grew distant again. “Aside from battlefield deployments, nothing happens. I train to grow stronger and stay away from this country’s demented politics.”

Byleth’s shoulders sagged. “Really? That’s it?” She felt a bit deprived, having been ready for stories of adventure and intrigue.

“Disappointed?” He asked, smirking. “That’s the thing about being raised to fight; you do little else.”

A bite on her line distracted her; she gave it an expert tug and then took it in, winding extra twine around her forearm to speed up the process. At the end she pulled up a light-scaled perch, quickly spearing it with a stick from the wood pile and resting it over the side of the fire pit to begin cooking.

“Surely you have friends, though? Family?” She asked, hooking another piece of meat and sending it off into the dark water. Her question was hopeful; as it stood, his life sounded eerily similar to her own: lonely and singularly driven.

Felix bent his head lower over his lap. “I don’t much care for my family’s company, nor them for mine.” He ended a stitch clumsily, piercing his thumb on the needle and wincing. “Though there _are_ those outside my family that I consider valuable allies and sparring partners.”

 _Sparring partners_ ? That wasn’t what she’d asked at _all_.

Byleth fought to keep the mirth from her face, but it escaped her anyway in a muffled half-giggle.

His eyes caught the movement, then narrowed in annoyance. “Oh, and do you have so many friends, yourself? Brothers and Sisters who share your deviant love of rule-breaking?” His tone was taunting, meant to provoke - and, like a juvenile lake perch, she took the bait.

“No. I am the sole defect among my brethren, the _true believers_ ,” she spat, but her scorn was directed entirely inward. A small part of her was ashamed at the petulant display - she had Flayn, after all, and two surrogate parents who cared for her - but she tamped it down.

She tugged harshly on her line, pulling up another fish and preparing it. When she turned to set it alongside the first, though, she found Felix regarding her with open amusement.

“How did you end up with the Church, then?” He asked, rolling up her needle and thread and handing it back.

Memories of her transformation flooded her; that morning, waking without the subconscious and ever-present sound of her own heartbeat; the naked fear and anguish on her father’s face when she ran downstairs; the last hug he gave her, tight and desperate in the doorway, as Church officials covered her head and crowded her into a carriage.

“It’s not a pleasant story,” she said haltingly, looking over his mended coat. “Just like your reasons for being out here, half-dead in the forest, I suspect.”

Felix hummed in agreement, turning the skewers over the fire. “That one’s easy, if not pleasant. There was a conflict at House Galatea’s border with the Alliance. House Fraldarius sent reinforcements.”

“And you were separated from them?” Byleth asked quietly, trying to imagine the long trek from Galatea lands to Fhirdiad.

He nodded. “By a snowstorm. My wounds weren’t bad at the time, but in the wilderness…” he trailed off, shrugging, and Byleth knew what he meant. “I kept hoping to run across a village or a homestead. Poor fortune, I suppose.”

She tilted her head, recalling her omen. _Not as poor as you think_.

Reaching behind her, she took the first skewer and passed it to him, then gathered up her twine and fishing line. The rest of the dried meat went straight to the cats in the underbrush, and their resulting chorus of meows made her smile.

Looking back on Felix, though - cleaned, healed, and nearly recovered - the smile faded. Their time together was nearly at its end.

“After you eat those, and after your clothes dry, you should have the strength to make it to the city,” she said, ignoring the loneliness that jabbed at her heart. She gathered her things in silence, frowning at her own attachment. From the beginning, she’d known this was temporary; hadn’t she?

Felix watched her pack, devouring both fish efficiently. When he was done, he pushed himself up and came to stand beside her. Byleth folded her arms beneath her cloak and glanced over; he quickly averted his eyes from hers.

“Your skills are wasted on the Church,” he said gruffly. She turned her head fully this time, but he kept his gaze on the lake. “Come back to Fhirdiad with me.”

She twitched away reflexively, the offer burning in her chest. She imagined absconding with him, becoming a knight, sharing more time with this strange man who resonated with her so deeply. But then the fantasy - for it _was_ simply a fantasy - broke; someone would see her hair, would know her for what she was.

“I can’t,” she breathed. “I am-” she searched for the right word, smiling sadly when she found it. “-bound.”

“Bound,” he echoed cynically. “I think I understand.”

Finality settled over her, making her shift uncomfortably. Overhead, the moon was nearing the tops of the trees; it was almost time to go.

To console him, or perhaps to console herself, she opened her basket and took out the soft white scarf inside, approaching Felix and winding it loosely around his neck. He stiffened at first, but allowed her to continue, looking down on her face as she worked.

“At the end of the moon- Founding Day,” he said, voice thick with something Byleth couldn’t identify. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the city?”

 _Even if you did, we could not meet again_ , she thought, swallowing the regret that threatened to overwhelm her. She stepped back, putting a suitable distance between them, and said, “Perhaps you will.”


	3. Chapter 3

\---Part 1: Byleth---

Her trip back to the monastery went by in a blur of prickling chill that had nothing to do with the season. She put her precious things away and collapsed onto her bed; when a servant delivered dinner and knocked on her bedroom door, she didn’t answer.

 _I won’t cry over someone I knew for two days_ , she thought, frowning up at the white canopy. She didn’t even know his last name; _he_ didn’t even know her _first_ name. There was no connection between them, she mentally insisted. Their meeting was just a divinely coincidental point in time, and now it was over.

These rationalizations repeated on a loop until she fell asleep; in the morning, when she woke with swollen, reddened eyes, she told herself it was because she’d forgotten to close her windows overnight.

 _I’m fine_ , she thought, forcing herself to get up and bathe.

When Flayn came in, waxing poetic about forbidden romance as soon as she closed the door, Byleth was still mostly submerged in her bathtub, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped protectively around them.

“-And I had the most wonderful dream about being whisked away by a court knight; I cannot begin to describe my disappointment upon waking- oh, my,” Flayn said, her whimsical voice turning to concern. “You did not eat your dinner again?”

Byleth lowered her head until only her eyes remained above water, feeling absolutely unprepared to deal with her friend’s vivacity this morning.

“Byleth? Are you feeling unwell?” Flayn slid open the bathing chamber door, expression softening to pity. “You will overheat if you soak too long,” she said quietly, reaching out both hands toward the tub.

Byleth took them, letting herself be pulled from the water and patted dry. She remained mute for the process, eyes downcast, a million ways to express her conflicted mood flitting in and out of her mind. Flayn led her to the dining table and went to personally receive the servants when they brought breakfast, making sure none of them saw inside the room.

“Something happened last night, did it not?” She asked, setting their meals out. “You need not speak of it, but we will be meeting with Father and Rhea soon. You must compose yourself before then.”

For all of her youthful naivety, Flayn spoke such wisdom; it was a trait that Byleth had come to rely on. The sweetly-spoken words dislodged the lump in her throat.

“I’m- I’ll be fine,” Byleth said, smiling weakly at her friend’s doubtful expression. “He’s returned to Fhirdiad, but I think I got too attached. I didn’t mean to, it just- snuck up on me.”

Flayn’s answering smile was soft and understanding. “One could hardly blame you for that. The conditions were quite intimate - scandalously so,” she said wryly, prompting a short, breathless laugh from her friend. “Dire circumstances can confuse the heart, they say.”

Byleth nodded along, taking small, reluctant bites of her food. “Perhaps that’s what it was,” she agreed, but the words - and her breakfast - tasted like ash. 

“Indeed,” Flayn said. “You should think of it like the poets of old; a beautiful moment preserved in memory. Shall I help you write a poem about him?”

“No, but thank you,” Byleth said, grateful for her friend’s earnest attempts at comfort. “Founding Day preparations should help put it out of my mind.”

Flayn clapped her hands together, eating utensils dropped and forgotten in an instant. “Oh, yes! I heard from Father that you will lead the ceremonies this year! I have been allowed to aid you in learning the Gift and the Anointing,” she said, giggling, and reached across the table to take Byleth’s hand. “Will it not be fun for our little family to practice together?”

Caught up in Flayn’s enthusiasm, Byleth smiled gently. It _had_ been a while since the four vessels had spent quality time in the same place. “Yes,” she said. “It will be.”

\---

It wasn’t.

“For the last time, step _on_ the beat, not _before_ it,” Seteth chastised, pointing his drum mallet at her like a weapon, and Byleth swung her head around to glare at him.

She halted her clumsy movements once more, feeling sore both physically and emotionally, and considered telling him what a liar he was; while this dance shared basic steps with the harvest and solstice dances, it was _far_ more complex.

“Why don’t you try this- this- _whatever_ this is- for three hours straight with no breaks?” She demanded, decorum forgotten and abandoned in her exhausted state.

Seteth bristled, ready to retort, while Flayn explained straightforwardly, “Oh, that was the half-heel turn with an upward reach, if I recall.”

“Calm yourselves,” Rhea intoned, and the room went silent. “Perhaps it _is_ time we took a break from the Gift. There is no need to rush.”

Seteth’s combat stance relaxed; he set the mallet down next to the temple’s ceremonial drum. “Agreed. The Anointing should be easier to learn, as well.”

Byleth leaned against the back wall of the temple, fanning herself with her hand. The four doors were shut and locked so that she could practice without her veil, but the resulting decrease in airflow was stifling. 

“Come here, dear one,” Rhea called softly, one hand outstretched, and Byleth took it. Rhea led her to the wooden basin of holy water to the side of the pulpit. “The Anointing is quite simple by comparison. The Crown Prince, playing Loog, will come to kneel before you, and you will paint his forehead with our symbol.” 

Rhea guided Byleth’s hand down to the clear water and dipped two of her fingers into it. When they turned, Seteth was already kneeling behind them, his long robes spread out elegantly on the wooden floor.

Byleth pushed his hair to the side and drew the looping symbol of the Goddess on his skin; he offered her an encouraging smile as she worked, and it melted away all of her previous annoyance with him.

“After this, the prince’s second - the one playing Kyphon - will retrieve from you a wooden crown and place it on the prince’s head,” Rhea said, and Flayn bounced forward to receive an invisible object from Byleth’s hands.

“I shall protect you, my liege!” Flayn stage-whispered as she set the imaginary crown on Seteth’s head, then retreated to stand behind him once more, grinning all the while.

Rhea inclined her head approvingly. “Finally, you will speak the very same blessing that the Goddess spoke unto Loog; it cannot be repeated outside the ceremony, but I will provide it to you in writing.”

The three Saints looked to Byleth expectantly.

“That’s it?” She asked, drying her hand on the inside of a long sleeve.

Seteth climbed to his feet and re-adjusted his robes. “It seems short now, but it will all be at ritual pace in person.”

She glanced to the big leather drum, the instrument that kept ritual pace for most official Church ceremonies. Actions like walking or speaking were performed to the beat of the drum, which was supposed to mimic a slow heartbeat. Byleth had always found that strange, since all of the top Church leaders didn’t have one.

“What about the Induction?”

“That one is held without pacing,” Seteth said.

“No,” Byleth grumbled, “I mean: what are the steps?”

Rhea shut and locked the temple vault door; its ornate key disappeared within her robes. “I will conduct the Induction. You will need only to speak after me, repeating my words.” She gestured slightly toward the four temple doors and Flayn hurried to unlock them. “This will conclude our practice for the day.”

Without needing to be told, Byleth pulled up her hood and veil before the outer doors opened. As soon as they did, clerics who were waiting patiently outside began to filter in, lighting candles and incense for the evening prayer. They offered shallow bows of obeisance to the vessels on the dais, which were formally returned.

“Flayn, you are dismissed from evening prayer service until Founding Day, provided that your time is spent helping Byleth practice the Gift,” Seteth said, retrieving a scripture book from his robes and laying it open on the temple’s lectern. He leafed through several sections before settling on the night’s oration topic.

Since his attention was on the book, he didn’t see the instant, jubilant shine in Flayn’s eyes as she looked plaintively to Byleth, or Byleth’s indulgent smile and nod in return.

\---

Their walk to the lake was a somber affair. Even though Byleth had wanted to be in a better mood by now - outings with Flayn were so rare, after all - the memory of fire-gold eyes and a sharp tongue lingered in her mind. Her thoughts kept drifting back to those brief interactions - where she’d felt comfortable enough to let her guard down around a stranger - and felt so right, so natural in doing so.

In lieu of tavern song humming, Flayn sang a soft hymn to draw out the cats; they came bounding out of the brush, excitedly winding around legs and mewling for attention, ranging behind the two vessels in a loose pack as they walked.

In much the same way, Flayn snuck frequent glances up at her friend, hands clasped fretfully in front of her. 

Finally, after minutes of nothing but crunching snow and meows, she spoke, “Father and I transformed on the same day. I know that always happens with Cethleann’s and Cichol’s vessels, but- it meant that we were able to enter the Church together.” Flayn’s tone, subdued and nostalgic, pulled Byleth out of her own head; she looked down, listening more closely. “Rhea was alone at the time, so Father had to learn everything very quickly, but we still- we still had each other. I have always thought you and Rhea to be so brave; you have such poise, despite being separated from your families. I cannot imagine how different my life would be if Father was not beside me.”

Byleth reached down and took one of Flayn’s hands, entwining their fingers. “ _You_ are my family,” she said, voice wavering with emotion. 

Flayn flashed her a sweet smile, squeezing her hand affectionately. “What I mean to say is that I know you are _lonely_ , Byleth. Earlier, when we discussed putting him out of your mind-” neither of them had to define which _him_ she now referenced, “-I did not mean to imply that you should simply forget, or that you should suffer in silence. If you wish to speak of him, or what the two of you shared, I will listen. Happily.”

Over the years, Byleth had often thought the Goddess’s blessings fickle and seeded randomly in her life, balanced equally with the curses. But Flayn was most definitely a blessing; the greatest boon that Sothis had delivered.

“What would I do without you?” She asked hoarsely, brushing a stray tear from her cheek with her free hand. 

“Not much, I suspect,” Flayn said, chuckling. “Why, when I found you in the bath this morning, with your hair splayed out on the water and your head sunken to your eyes, you were the very image of a swamp monster! And the servants would have seen you just like that. My goodness.”

Byleth barked out a laugh, startled out of her melancholy. “ _Swamp monster_? Why, you-” she bumped Flayn’s shoulder playfully, setting her friend slightly off balance, both of them giggling.

When her mirth had subsided and the lakeshore came into view, Byleth’s good-natured grin faded from her lips.

“The way he talked about his life was so...familiar,” she said quietly. “Loneliness. Pointlessness. And his _eyes_ \- it was like looking into a mirror.”

Flayn listened patiently, hand maintaining a firm and supportive grip.

“I don’t know. It was like he really understood- or _could_ really understand, if he knew,” she murmured. “And to have felt that connection so briefly and lost it, I’m-” she choked up again, clearing her throat. 

“Grieving,” Flayn said gently.

Byleth nodded. “Grieving,” she agreed.

As they came upon the fishing shelter, their steps slowed until they stopped just a few feet out from the fire pit. Hanging from the shelter’s roof of woven branches was a silver dagger sheathed in black leather; Byleth recognized it from Felix’s sword belt.

She released her hold on Flayn, the previous thread of conversation forgotten as she approached the dagger and took it carefully into her hands. The family crest of Fraldarius, etched into the leather and filled in with silver, gleamed in the moonlight. 

Byleth clutched it to her chest, the cold metal chilling her skin dully through her layers, and clapped one hand over her mouth to keep from releasing a sob; whether it would have been in delight or sorrow, she could not tell.

“A beautiful memory,” Flayn said, reiterating her words from that morning. She smiled, patted Byleth on the shoulder, and unpacked their fishing supplies.

\---

Over the next few weeks, Byleth threw herself into the ceremony practice sessions. Gradually, in increments so small she hardly noticed them, her skill with the Gift improved; now she stepped perfectly to the rhythm of the drum, feeling more graceful than ungainly in her execution of the movements. 

Once she had a basic understanding of the steps, Rhea attached tiny strings of bells to her wrists and ankles. When performed correctly, the bells only made a sound when she struck a new position in time with the drum. As she gained mastery over the dance, she understood why no other instruments accompanied it - the heavy beats overlaid with delicate bells nearly put her in a trance.

During the last week before the festival, she was allowed to practice in the muslin-wing gown; the lightness of the fabric made her feel like she really could fly away in it.

“Oh, I have chosen your companion for Founding Day,” Seteth said offhandedly one day after practice. “Her name is Mercedes von Martritz; she is studying to enter the clergy and is familiar with Fhirdiad’s young nobility.”

Byleth looked up from her wrists, where she was fruitlessly trying to untie her bell ribbons one-handed. “Von Martritz? She’s from the Empire?”

Taking in her sorry state, Seteth moved to untie the bells for her, smiling faintly. “Originally, yes, but she sought asylum within the Church. She is quite close with Baron Dominic’s heir, and by extension, many others of similar age to you. I believe she will be a good judge of suitable associates.”

 _Suitable associates_? Byleth gave him a wary look.

“Come now. All of the ranked aristocracy may be eligible for your Induction, but I would wager that less than half of them can be held to the Church’s standards.” He finished releasing the complicated knots, then bent to take care of the ones at her feet. “Mercedes will simply aid you in separating the wheat from the chaff.”

Her burgeoning excitement for a potential new friend turned to instant dread of yet another babysitter. “And what _are_ the Church’s standards, exactly?”

Seteth took the bells back to the temple vault, laying them gingerly inside their velvet case. “Pious, refined, well-spoken; it should not be difficult for children of the nobility to meet these expectations, do not worry. We shall have you a worthy circle of acquaintances by year’s end.”

Byleth trailed behind him, securing her hood and veil. “You’re trying really hard not to call them ‘friends.’”

“Because they will not be,” Seteth said firmly, closing up the vault. He fixed her with a serious stare. “Flayn is your friend; Rhea and I are your friends. The Crown Prince may one day have the privilege of the title, should you wish it. But the rest of them do not possess a shred of the divine, and should not think of themselves as such. Nor should you of them.”

Her heart, such as it was, sank.

“No one else?” She asked, concealing her disappointment.

“No one else,” Seteth confirmed, and turned the key in the lock.

\---Part 2: Felix---

If he’d known it would be so noisy when he got home, he would’ve just stayed out in the woods.

Servants swarmed around him, checking him for wounds - of course, there were none - and urging him in turns to eat, sleep, bathe, or contact his father. Eventually he snapped and sent them away to contact whomever they pleased, and that worked to secure him a few moments of peace.

But then the news of his return spread among the nearby estates, and before he knew it, Ingrid and Sylvain were bursting into his bedroom.

“Felix!” They exclaimed in unison.

“We’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you! My father is still in Galatea territory, canvassing the area you were last seen - Sylvain and I scouted the road back to Fhirdiad since we thought you might try something _utterly stupid_ like walking home by yourself. Don’t you know that you’re supposed to stay put when you’re lost?” Ingrid spoke a mile a minute, only stopping to breathe when she absolutely had to. Felix leaned away from the verbal onslaught.

“I can’t believe you _actually_ walked home. I was mostly kidding when I suggested it,” Sylvain said, chuckling despite the knot between his brows. 

Felix shrugged. “The road would have taken too long. I chose a more direct route,” he said to Ingrid, and then to Sylvain, “What’s the problem? I knew I could make it back, and I did.”

They gave each other a look - one that Felix absolutely hated. It was like they were trying to figure out a puzzle, like they were confirming again how strange he was.

And then, at the same time, they caught him up in a back-breaking hug.

Felix resigned himself to the contact, going limp until they released him, and even gave them a few reciprocal shoulder pats. “Okay, enough,” he said, extracting himself from their limbs. 

“Oh, sorry! You’re probably injured- wait, you’re not injured?” Ingrid stepped back, inspecting him from head to toe. “How in the world are you not injured?”

“Yeah, Felix, how are you _less_ wounded - and cleaner - than when I last saw you in battle?” Sylvain asked suspiciously.

Bright green hair whipped by in his memory; a torrent of flame, the glint of a blade, red blood in the snow; a woman bathed in blue light. “I received aid in the royal forest,” he said. Everywhere that Bel’s healing magic had touched him burned white-hot for an instant. “From a nun of Garreg Mach.”

After a prolonged moment where they both just stared at him, Sylvain snorted. “What? They don’t leave the monastery. Are you sure you didn’t just hallucinate a beautiful holy woman while you were stumbling around in the woods?”

“I never said she was-” Felix paused, tongue tied in knots as sea-green eyes flashed again in the firelight, as gentle hands made him whole, as lips turned upward in a defiant smirk, and found he could not finish his protest.

Sylvain rubbed his chin, grinning, and Felix just _knew_ he was filing away that reaction for later use. The thought made him grind his teeth.

“Well, whatever happened, I’m glad you’re home safe,” Ingrid said warmly, but then her tone turned ice cold. “But you really need to stop berating others about reckless decisions, and then acting recklessly yourself. In fact-”

Once again, Felix leaned away from her to weather the ongoing lecture.

\---

Familiar, infuriating, booming laughter woke him the next morning. He cracked his eyes open, only a few seconds awake and already fatigued from the interaction that awaited him in the dining room.

Felix looked from his coat - mended, but still battle-and-road-worn - to his wardrobe, wondering if he had anything presentable enough for the crown prince. A second later, he scoffed at his own line of thinking and rolled out of bed.

He pulled on his leggings and a long-sleeved black undershirt, raking his fingers through his hair to tame it, then buckled up his high boots and slung his sword belt around his waist. 

On the way out, his eyes fell to the snow-white scarf folded neatly on his desk. He ran a hand over the soft cotton, then wound it loosely around his neck, inhaling the faint scent of incense that came off of it.

Rodrigue gave him a pointed look as he sat down for breakfast, which Felix enjoyed immensely. He cocked his head, silently challenging his father to say something about his appearance. _In my own home, after being missing for two weeks? Well, old man?_

After a few charged seconds, Rodrigue’s tense features relented to neutrality. 

_I win_.

At the same time, Dimitri clapped him heartily on the shoulder, depressing his entire right side. “Felix! We were worried sick about you. Welcome home,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice grated on Felix’s nerves. Their relationship, while strained for a few years, had gotten better as the two of them eased into adulthood, but Felix still sometimes felt those old issues rise like bile in his throat.

Walking in on his father and Dimitri laughing over breakfast and feeling like a guest in his own house was one of those times.

Instead of saying something that would ruin the atmosphere, Felix nodded.

“Ingrid told me you returned on foot from the Galatea border,” Rodrigue commented as casually as if he were talking about the weather. “That couldn’t have been an easy journey. Well done, son.”

And since downplaying effort was a Fraldarius family tradition, Felix simply replied, “Mm, thank you,” and reached across the table to pile eggs and sausages onto a plate.

“How did you manage it?” Dimitri asked, propping one elbow up on the table and leaning his cheek against a closed fist. 

The corners of Felix’s mouth twitched; if _he_ had shown such abominable table manners, it surely wouldn’t have passed without comment. 

“I determined the direction of Fhirdiad and started walking,” he said flatly, precluding more talk by digging into his food. Dimitri’s eager smile flagged somewhat.

Everyone was treating it like some sort of miracle, but Felix had only done what anyone would do in a survival situation: _survive_. By any means necessary. He was already tired of explaining it.

Rodrigue wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “You’ll have a few days to recover before picking up your duties again, of course. You can use that time to catch up on everything you’ve missed.”

“Indeed,” Dimitri said, perking up again. “The border dispute with House Daphnel ended favorably, and I believe we have you to thank for that. Derdriu put pressure on them to concede after you went missing - they even lent us a scouting regiment to aid in the search.”

Felix laughed at the prince’s sardonic tone, but he felt the same. The stakes were always higher when a noble was directly involved, with governing bodies toeing lines of decency and reconciliation that they wouldn’t even consider for a commoner.

“Oh, and I almost forgot - Founding Day is to be led by the Holy Maiden herself!” Dimitri’s good eye sparkled in wonder as he spoke. “Can you believe it? For the first time in over a century, we will look upon the face of the Goddess.”

From behind the lip of his water cup, Felix hummed wryly. He was usually indifferent to Church matters, but the topic was sour with him this morning. The officials he’d see at the festival would be the same ones that had put such a complicated, bitter expression on Bel’s face. _Bound_ , she’d said.

Rodrigue’s sharp eyes honed in on his son, narrowing slightly. “You’re not pleased? She will renew the nation’s blessings.”

A footman approached to deliver Felix’s mail; he sighed, both at his father’s words and the stack of missives, letters, and summons that had accumulated in his absence. “Pleased to hear that a stranger will confirm the Regent’s right to rule based on some ancient nonsense, rather than his own merits? No,” he said, sifting through the paperwork to find anything of importance. “I bet _you’re_ pleased, though, to be playing Kyphon.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rodrigue’s disapproving frown slant upward into a smirk. Felix had but a moment to prepare himself, stiffening up for whatever counterattack his father had coming.

“Actually, the Archbishop has decided that Dimitri will receive the blessing this year,” Rodrigue said, delivering each word like a poisoned arrow. “Which means _you’ll_ be playing Kyphon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rodrigue: dmg 100 hit 100 crit 100


	4. Chapter 4

The morning of the festival broke over the monastery in bell-song; they rang out in wave after wave, much more cacophonous than the usual three-tone melody that served to wake the clergy.

Byleth was already awake, of course, and leaning on the railing of her balcony to watch the sun rise over Fhirdiad. She followed the uneven line of daylight as it swept across the city and wondered which of the distant mansions in the estate district belonged to House Fraldarius, and then which of those mansions’ many windows - mere specks at this range - might belong to Felix. 

Did their encounter leave the same impression on him as it had left on her?

When he looked out at Garreg Mach, high on its hill to the west of the city, did he wonder which room in which tower might belong to ‘Bel?’

She toyed with the augur spike at her neck, turning it over and over in her hands. It would be easy, she thought, to quell her fears here and now. Easy, but improper; the Goddess’s magic was meant to be used for the good of others, not the good of the self.

But many things that she was taught - things that the Goddess was supposed to like or dislike, to punish or reward - had turned out to be false. It was a secret that Byleth had kept since she was twelve. 

She’d sprinted up the residential tower staircase and hidden under her blankets, trembling and terrified that Sothis would send down divine judgment on her for telling a lie; the lie she’d long forgotten, but that night remained starkly, for no punishment ever came.

Nor did it for the next lie, or the next, or any of the times she’d thought or spoken heretical things. So maybe this, too - the use of auguries - held a different set of rules than the one Seteth had taught her. 

Byleth looked down at the sharp little cone of silver and copper, holding it still between her thumb and index finger. 

What was one selfish augury next to the host of her sins?

“Will I see him again?” She whispered, her breath fogging in the cold air.

She held out her left hand, palm-side up, and clenched it into a fist, then brought the spike down on her pulse point like she’d done countless times in the past. Its fine point pierced her vein; on the upward stroke, it took with it a perfect drop of blood that clung to the metal. Byleth let it fall over the wood floor of her balcony.

At this point, the practitioner’s minute puncture was supposed to be healed instantly by the Goddess’s power, but the little red dot on her wrist remained.

Frowning, she tried to activate her own power, but it would not obey. Another drop of blood leached out of the wound, falling to join the first, and then another - and then another.

In horror, she realized that this question was too much for an augury to handle; what she witnessed now was an oracle, a ritual she’d never before completed. A ritual that took significantly more blood. 

_ Why?  _ She thought, panicked, as a rivulet of red poured from her wrist, forming a swirling, circular shape on the ground. The question she’d asked was firmly within an augury’s power - she knew, she’d memorized the lists - so  _ why _ ?

All at once the flow stopped and the wound closed over, leaving her trembling and clutching the railing. She stooped low over the resulting image, determined that it should make up for the blood it had cost her, but it still only looked like swirls and angles - like a bundle of sticks, she thought.

Sometimes the answer was abstract like this; interpreting oracles was an art that few mastered, and Byleth was notoriously bad at it. She pursed her lips, moving to the other side of the blood sign. The mess of lines and edges didn’t make sense from here, either, and she frowned down at it. This was supposed to have  _ clarified _ things for her! What could be simpler than a yes or no question?

As the blood sign evaporated, her eyes turned skyward, still tight with frustration.  _ What are you doing up there _ ?

She turned away, running her hands along the cold, dark wood of the railing and retreating inside. She could spend all the time she wanted later to interpret that strange answer, but today was for celebrating.

“Your Grace,” a muffled, high-pitched voice called from the hall. “I’m here to assist you with dressing.”

That would be her companion, then. Byleth took a deep breath, made sure her veil was in place, and went to answer the door.

\---

Wind blew through the open windows of the carriage as it trundled down the road toward Fhirdiad. Byleth sat, folded nearly in half by the sickening motion of the vehicle and the restrictive tightness of her ceremonial robe. Mercedes gently rubbed her back, murmuring comforting words, while Seteth looked on worriedly from the opposite bench, clutching a sheaf of paper.

“I’m fine,” Byleth gasped, pressing a hand to her stomach. “It’s just- been a while since-” she shuddered as the carriage passed a patch of bumpy ground.  _ It’s been a while since I rode anything; also, I just lost a lot of blood _ . She stared down at the floor of the carriage, wondering if  _ this _ was her punishment.

Seteth pursed his lips. “Perhaps I should have kept up with your horsemanship.”

Byleth fixed him with an agonized glare.

“It will pass,” Mercedes said gently, fanning Byleth with one of Seteth’s papers. “You were probably already nervous, right, Your Grace? Sometimes that can make carriage sickness worse.”

Byleth nodded miserably. Every negative opinion she’d harbored about having a companion dissipated like smoke; Mercedes was a treasure.

“Do you remember the words to the ceremonies?” Seteth asked, reaching over to adjust her circlet of office and straighten her formal veil. “It is not too late to have Rhea perform them, if you do not feel able.”

“ _ No _ . No,” Byleth said, forcing herself to straighten up. “I can do it.” A lock of her hair slipped outside its silken drape, and Mercedes looked politely away until she could fix it. “I’m going to do it.”

Seteth smiled fondly, then secured his own veil. “Be sure to tell me if that changes,” he said, looking out the window toward the approaching city gates. 

As they grew nearer, the road smoothed out from dirt to stone and their ride became significantly more stable. By the time the royal knights rode up alongside their procession, Byleth had righted herself completely, and the roiling storm in her gut was fading.

The knights took up a defensive formation around the carriage as it entered the city streets proper, forming a barrier between it and the throngs of people that lined both sides of the wide avenue. Toward the gates, the crowds were small and the noise level minimal - for a city - but the closer they got to the heart of Fhirdiad, the thicker the masses became.

They cheered, tossed flowers and garlands, sang hymns - some cried as the carriage passed, arching their necks out over the street for a glimpse inside.

Byleth was happy to oblige, practically hanging out of the window for a chance to see the cityscape up close. It was decorated in white lilies and blue roses from top to bottom, hanging from lamp posts and balconies, held in the hands of the festive, and crushed under foot and wheel. Imagery of Loog and the Goddess, painted on flags and tarps, hung in windows and fluttered on poles hanging out over the street.

“Byleth,” Seteth chided, and she withdrew into the carriage at his tone. “You will have a chance to see this on your way back. Try not to seem overly eager.”

She squinted at him.  _ But I  _ am _ overly eager _ .

“Oh, do you mean for the Maiden’s Deliverance?” Mercedes asked, clapping her hands together. “I saw the palanquin in the palace’s courtyard! It’s very beautiful.”

Byleth tilted her head. “For the what?”

“I am certain that I explained this to you,” Seteth said, voice dripping with disappointment. Byleth flattened her mouth into a line. “After all of the ceremonies are concluded, you will be borne back to Garreg Mach in an open litter and escorted by the city’s great lords.”

She exhaled slowly, tempering her dismay. “I don’t get to stay in the city afterward? For the festival?”

“I am afraid not,” Seteth said sympathetically. “Arranging for your safety in such a crowd would be a logistical impossibility.”

Byleth inclined her head, measured and proper. “I understand.”

“Don’t worry, Your Grace!” Mercedes raised one fist as if she were ready to punch someone. “I know that the nobles are excited to meet you; they’re probably already planning all sorts of parties to hold over the winter moons. Oh! And there’s also the Midwinter Ball at the end of the Ethereal Moon!”

Seteth’s expression turned from sympathy, to annoyance, to mild fear. “Let us- not get ahead of ourselves,” he said, casting a wary eye over Byleth, then groaning.

She was positively beaming behind her veil, propriety abandoned. “Really? What are they like?”

“They’re  _ wonderful _ ,” Mercedes gushed, “There’s music and dancing and five-course meals, and you meet so many interesting people!”

Byleth leaned forward, stars in her eyes and ready to inquire more, but then the carriage came to a stop. When she looked out the window, she was met with the imposing grey stone walls of Castle Blaiddyd.

\---

Three pairs of footsteps echoed down a wide corridor, its blue velvet drapery and rugs inadequate to soak up the sound. Paintings of unfamiliar landscapes and people Byleth didn’t recognize lined the walls, save for the one at the very end; Lambert Blaiddyd, the previous king, stood proudly in his portrait, spear in hand and staring down all who approached.

She remembered seeing his likeness on flags and handbills as a child, and then plastered over every newspaper when he’d been assassinated.

“Where is everyone?” Byleth asked, turning in a full circle as they walked. Even at Garreg Mach, a place known for its silence and discretion, servants could be found going about their business in most areas, even at night.

Seteth paused to allow her to catch up again. “The lords are already gathered in the stateroom. The palace staff have temporarily vacated this wing out of respect for you.”

_ Respect _ ? Byleth wrinkled her nose but said nothing. It sounded more like they were being inconvenienced, to her. 

Seteth stopped outside a set of double doors and offered his arm to Byleth, smiling down at her. He’d removed his veil now that they were out of the public eye, and his subtle golden jewelry and copper augur spike glittered when he turned.

“We have prepared well for this day, Byleth. Hold your head high; I believe you will do marvelously,” he whispered, laying a hand briefly over hers. “Introduce us, if you please, Lady Martritz.”

Mercedes bowed deeply and pushed open the broad oak doors.

“Lord Seteth, Twelfth Divine Vessel of Saint Cichol, and Lady Byleth, Ninth Divine Vessel of the Goddess Sothis,” she pronounced in her gentle voice, stepping aside once the doors were fully open.

Seteth, as the senior clergyman between them, entered first, walking purposefully toward a raised wooden platform at the front of the lavishly decorated room. Rhea was already seated upon it in a grand chair, with two empty, slightly smaller chairs flanking her to either side. 

Byleth swallowed hard and followed him, focused narrowly on the path between her and the chair he hadn’t claimed - if she looked only at her immediate destination, perhaps she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the massive number of people seated to her left.

She took a small step up onto the platform, careful to keep her balance, and then seated herself beside Rhea, taking a quiet, shaky breath and folding her hands in her lap to hide the tremors that ran through them.

Before her was a sea of faces, not unlike when the temple was packed with worshipers - but  _ these _ faces were those of Faerghus’s great lords and their heirs, expecting to meet with a flawless reincarnation of the Goddess herself, not the trembling mess that was currently Byleth.

Rhea nodded to Seteth; he cleared his throat.

“Under the direction of Archbishop Rhea, Fifteenth Divine Vessel of the Prophet Seiros, we shall now begin the Induction,” he said, and all three vessels bowed their heads solemnly. “High Lords of Fhirdiad, you may approach the Archbishop.”

An older man with cropped blonde-and-gray hair rose from the preeminent spot among the gathered nobles, moving blurrily toward them in Byleth’s peripheral vision. She decided to look only at his shoes - polished and dark, clicking against the wood flooring - until it was time to speak, following Seteth’s advice; hopefully the lords would think her demure and respectful, rather than insecure.

The man knelt before Rhea, one hand over his heart and the other on the pommel of a ceremonial sword at his belt. 

“Lord Regent Rufus Augustus Blaiddyd, I hereby grant you and your heirs my blessing to behold the Goddess with your mortal eyes from this day forward,” Rhea said, tracing the Church’s crest in the air above his head.

Byleth raised one arm to do the same, repeating the intonation in a clear voice that wavered only slightly; beside her, Rhea gave a minute nod to show her approval. 

Rufus got to his feet stiffly, as though his joints pained him, and returned to his seat. A few seats down, another man stood, and it hit Byleth just  _ how many _ times she was going to have to say this blessing; even if only every third face or so was a lord, that was still - she attempted some quick math, but had to abandon it when the man reached them.

“Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius,” Rhea began, and Byleth had to fight down her anxiety all over again.

It went on like that until her symbol-tracing arm was heavy and her tongue felt numb. An endless procession of men and women, becoming faceless in their multitudes, knelt on the platform to receive the blessing and then returned to the dark, muddy sea beyond the perimeter of her vision.

Finally, a light hand shook her from her stupor, and Byleth looked up to see Mercedes standing next to her. She glanced around, worried she’d missed a cue, and saw the rows and rows of nobles slowly filing out of the stateroom.

“You did so well, my dear child,” Rhea whispered. “There are only two more to Induct, and then you will have a few minutes to breathe.”

Mercedes knelt before them, beaming as she placed a hand over her heart, and Byleth couldn’t help but follow suit. Rhea spoke the words; Byleth repeated them as strongly as she could, putting forth more conviction than she had for any of the lords.

When the room was empty, a final person strode in, clanking along in heavy armor, and took a knee on the platform. Byleth’s breath caught in her throat.

“Knight-Captain Jeralt Reus Eisner,” Rhea said, just as even and practiced as she had been on her first recitation, “I hereby grant you and your heirs my blessing to behold the Goddess with your mortal eyes from this day forward.”

Byleth forced herself to breathe slowly, light-headed with surprise, and repeated the words off-cadence and wavering - but Rhea and Seteth didn’t seem to mind. As soon as she was done, she looked to the side for permission, quivering in her chair, and Rhea had only to give the slightest nod before she shot up, wrapping her arms around her father’s neck.

Jeralt held her close, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “Hey, kiddo,” he choked, obviously trying to rein in his emotions as well. “Thank you,” he said, raising his head, and Byleth realized he was addressing Rhea, “ _ thank you _ .”

\---

There was a bounce in her step as - now - four pairs of footsteps echoed down the stone corridors of Castle Blaiddyd.

“Mercedes, do you think my father would be welcome at one of those parties you mentioned?” Byleth asked, walking arm-in-arm with her companion.

“Parties?” Rhea cocked an eyebrow and looked to Seteth, who shook his head vehemently.

“Oh, certainly,” Mercedes said, “Knights and other military officers are invited quite often - though I can’t recall ever seeing the Knight-Captain at one before.”

Rhea’s worried expression smoothed out. “Ah, you speak of the nobility’s social gatherings. The captain is a very private man and dislikes large groups.”

_ Perhaps I got it from him _ , Byleth thought.

Seteth led them to a small drawing room off the royal gardens, whose floor-to-ceiling windows had been blocked off by curtains.

“This is where we leave you,” Rhea said, cupping Byleth’s cheek under her veil. “When you are prepared, follow the stepping stone path. The drum’s beat will begin as soon as you are in place.”

Byleth leaned into the touch, equal parts excited and scared to navigate the rest of the ceremonies alone. Rhea and Seteth disappeared out one of the glass doors, showing a brief glimpse of the verdant greenery beyond. 

“All right, Your Grace, we can do this,” Mercedes said confidently, shutting the inner doors to the drawing room and taking the muslin-wing dress from where it hung next to the fireplace. 

Byleth disrobed quickly, shivering despite the roaring fire, and slipped into the gown. Its thin fabric did little to protect her from the cold, and she felt especially bare when Mercedes lifted the drape, veil, and circlet from her head.

In its place went a much simpler crown of wood in the shape of the Church’s crest - with no attached veil. The implication struck her suddenly, even though she’d been aware of this fact for over a month, that there would be no barriers between herself and the gathered aristocracy this time.

Mercedes brushed Byleth’s hair out and curled the ends with a heated metal rod, leaving it down to hang loosely about her waist. Next, she opened a thin black case and painted fine, dark lines around Byleth’s eyes, highlighting them with a brush of pink powder across her cheekbones.

“What’s wrong, Your Grace?” She asked, pausing in her work. “Does the makeup feel strange?”

Byleth blinked, cringing at the sticky weight of her eyelashes. “Yes, but that’s not- I’m just nervous,” she said. “There are so many people.”

Mercedes smiled in understanding. “Have you ever heard of a social debut?” Byleth shook her head. “In high society, that’s when a young noble is formally introduced to their peers. There’s a big party and the young noble displays their talents.” She picked up a different brush, dipping it into a shiny pink substance. 

“During my debut, I got so jittery that I spilled wine all over the Prime Minister’s shoes,” she confessed, grimacing at the memory. “But, in the end, the others in my age group accepted me because they wanted a new friend. I admit that this is a different sort of debut than usual, but I think it’ll turn out the same.”

Byleth giggled at the story, promptly closing her mouth so Mercedes could paint that strange pink substance over her lips. “So, you found acceptance here in Faerghus, too?” She asked when the job was done.

“Oh, yes,” Mercedes said, packing away her brushes. “I’ve made many lifelong friends in Fhirdiad, and I’ll introduce you to all of them. Hold out your arms, please.”

Byleth obeyed, and Mercedes wound a fine, white silk ribbon up each arm in a latticework pattern, letting the ends hang down. Finally, she lifted the thin strings of bells from their case and secured them around Byleth’s wrists and ankles.

“There,” Mercedes said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look beautiful, Your Grace.”

\---

The stepping stones were warm beneath Byleth’s bare feet. She’d expected to freeze as soon as she threw open the outer doors, but the royal gardens didn’t resemble or feel like Faerghus winter at all. The expansive courtyard was protected by a high glass roof that kept its lush lawns free of snow, and the humidity inside reminded her of late spring.

Each step she took along the path jingled the bells softly, and though she kept her feet light, she knew that her audience must hear her coming. Dread sat like a lead ball low in her stomach, but the words to the Anointing - and the movements of the Gift - remained sharply in focus; with all the faith that Rhea and Seteth had put in her, she was determined to succeed.

Around a copse of tropical-looking trees was a long, two-tiered wooden stage with navy curtains draped across the back. On the left curtain, the family crest of Blaiddyd was emblazoned in bright silver, while the symbol of the Church stood out in gold on the other. Rhea stood on the Church side of the upper tier holding the ceremonial crown, and Lord Rufus stood on the other. To the side of the stage, Seteth knelt beside the ritual drum from the temple. 

Byleth walked with a measured stride toward the center of the lower tier, stopping beside a raised basin of holy water.

A moment after she came to rest, Seteth struck the first beat against the drum.

She swept her foot in a controlled half-arc, creating a sharp wave of bell-tones on the next hit. “Loog,” she called, projecting her voice like Rhea had taught her, “approach and receive my power.”

The drum steadied her, allowing her to fall into the muscle memory she’d built up during practice. She extended one arm over the holy water, keeping her eyes upon it, and waited for her cue to turn toward the prince.

Heavy footsteps ascended the stage at ritual pace - slowly, so slowly - and then, immediately in front of her, “Loog” fell heavily to his knees; they thudded against the stage in perfect time. Another beat and Byleth was facing him, looking down into one awestruck, sky-blue eye.

_ So this is the Crown Prince _ , she thought, taking in as much of his face as she could with her limited time. She was surprised to see his right eye covered with an eyepatch, but it didn’t last long - Faerghus was a military-oriented nation, after all.

Byleth dipped two fingers into the holy water on beat, then brought them to his forehead. His blonde hair, similar to the Regent’s but much longer, was tied back at the base of his neck; she gently brushed aside the fringe that had escaped and painted the Church’s symbol upon him.

“With this, you are anointed,” she said, stepping back and away to receive the crown. Rhea handed it down smoothly, making sure both of their hands touched it at the right time. Byleth heard “Kyphon” approaching, and knew she had to time her next twirl with his arrival.

In the few beats she had to wait, her fingers felt along the edges of the carved wooden crown, and a tremor of unease ran through her. She subtly took a closer look at it; its angles and slanted lines tugged painfully upon her memory, and she had only the briefest instant of realization before she had to turn back around-

The drum beat hit; her right foot landed heavily, as it was supposed to, letting out a clear chime. And before her stood Felix.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I just want to say how much I appreciate all the support this fic has gotten. Honestly, I didn't expect many people to enjoy this AU, so your comments and kudos make me really really happy! Thank you so much! If I were a braver human, I'd reply to them all individually - alas, anxiety.
> 
> To answer a question from last chapter: everyone is their time skip ages but Seteth (41), Rhea (59), and Flayn (19).
> 
> (Edit 3/15/20: minor changes for flow and word choice)  
> (Edit 4/26/20: had to retcon the above mentioned ages because i did...just the WORST possible math. simple math too. gdi)

\---Part 1: Felix---

He hated religious holidays. Everyone wore gaudy ceremonial armor and weapons that would be useless in a real fight - what did they expect to happen if some shady group took advantage of that? - and acted so _pious_. It was revolting. He knew what most of these old blowhards got up to in their free time, and it wasn’t prayer.

“At least _act_ like you’re not suffering,” Sylvain muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Since Houses Fraldarius and Gautier were so close in rank, the two had been able to wrangle adjacent seats in the stateroom. “We’re in the front row, man. The Archbishop’s right there.”

Felix adjusted his slouched posture but didn’t uncross his arms - a compromise. The new leather of his pointless armor creaked as he did so. “Since when did you start caring about appearances?” 

“Since your dad started giving you the stink eye five minutes ago,” Sylvain said, tilting his head in Rodrigue’s direction. “If this goes on much longer, _I’m_ going to get lectured just from being in your general vicinity.”

A surreptitious glance confirmed that his father was practically on the edge of his seat, glaring like he could straighten out Felix’s behavior through sheer force of will. Luckily, his uncle - Rodrigue’s younger brother - sat between them, forming an unwitting windbreak. 

“I’d rather a lecture than this. Why do we have to go through all this trouble just to see someone’s face?” Despite his complaints, Felix lowered his hands to the arms of his chair.

Sylvain exhaled a tiny, disbelieving puff of air through his nose. “You’re not at all curious to see the Goddess? I bet she’s beautiful. I bet she’s,” he said, pausing and no doubt searching his mental encyclopedia of sleazy pickup lines, “incandescent.”

Felix lolled his head to the side, giving his friend the most unamused look he could muster. Before he could remark on the tastelessness of Sylvain’s comment, though, Margrave Gautier loudly cleared his throat and silenced the both of them.

The dignitaries’ entrance of the stateroom opened wide and a familiar face walked in. _That woman from the Empire_ , his brain supplied. _Annette’s friend_.

“Lord Seteth, Twelfth Divine Vessel of Saint Cichol, and Lady Byleth, Ninth Divine Vessel of the Goddess Sothis,” she announced, while Felix chased down her name from half-remembered conversations.

Finally he gave up, focusing instead on the two others that followed her. One, he’d seen before; Lord Seteth spent a fair amount of time in Fhirdiad conducting business for the Archbishop. He also taught the young squires their religious lessons - lessons that Felix had admittedly slept through as a teenager.

The Holy Maiden trailed behind Seteth, head bowed and looking for all the world like a duckling following its mother. Given the Church’s reputation for austerity, Felix was expecting a proper, tranquil young woman, not a lost puppy. The sight irritated him for reasons he tried to ignore, but that stuck persistently in the back of his mind: just how common was it for the Church to force people into roles they didn’t want?

He brought one hand up to the scarf at his neck, his hard-won concession for agreeing to don this ridiculous armor. It had long lost its smoky, faintly floral scent, but its soft texture under his thin gloves was still soothing.

“Lord Regent Rufus Augustus Blaiddyd, I hereby grant you and your heirs my blessing to behold the Goddess with your mortal eyes from this day forward,” the Holy Maiden spoke in a thin, shaky voice, and Felix’s hand tightened around the scarf.

It was smaller and less confident - and unsettlingly monotone, like how all Church officials spoke - but it sounded almost like-

“You okay?” Sylvain whispered, leaning over to speak while keeping his eyes on the ceremony.

Felix nodded, straining to see detail beyond the Holy Maiden’s sheer golden veil. There was no way, he thought in a panic, but then the Archbishop’s long, sleek, jade-hued hair caught his attention, and a few things clicked ominously into place.

“How many of them-” he began, but paused when his father stood to receive his blessing. “How many of them have green hair?” He asked Sylvain, quieter this time.

His friend squinted down, mouth slightly open as though this was the last question he’d been expecting. “Uhh,” Sylvain said. “ _Them_? The divine vessels?” Felix nodded impatiently. “All of them. How do you not know that?”

\---

He walked mechanically beside Sylvain and Ingrid on their way to the royal gardens, mired in silent denial. None of it showed on his face, and he was careful to keep his arms crossed to disinvite conversation, but inside his thoughts surged like storm-swelled waves.

Was she? How could she be? No - perhaps green hair was common within the Church, he reasoned, glancing to Sylvain. But he couldn’t risk the scrutiny of asking, especially now that Ingrid was here; they were suspicious of him enough lately, with how often he wore the scarf.

A smaller group of nobles filed into the gardens, taking a less rigid seating pattern than they had in the stateroom. While many non-inheriting family members had come to witness the Induction, only the lords themselves and their immediate heirs could attend the last two ceremonies since the Holy Maiden would be unveiled.

The humidity of the room crawled along his skin like spiderwebs as he took his seat next to Dimitri, and he could only hope that for once in his stupid life, the prince would read a social cue and keep his thoughts to himself.

“Felix, you look unwell. Are you nervous?” Dimitri asked, effortlessly shattering Felix’s slim expectations for a time beyond counting.

“I’m fine,” Felix muttered, watching as Rufus and the Archbishop ascended the two-tiered garden stage and stood on their respective sides of its backdrop. To divert focus, he asked, “Are _you_ nervous?”

Dimitri laughed tensely. “I’m going to meet the Goddess. How could I not be?”

There it was again; that itching irritation that scraped across his nerves. “She’s not the Goddess,” Felix said. “She’s just a person.” _And she’s not Bel, either_ , he insisted mentally, _she can’t be_.

He expected pushback, but Dimitri just shook his head fondly. “I always forget about your issues with the Church. Thank you for partaking in this ceremony - I truly appreciate it.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome. You don’t have to do- that,” Felix deflected, looking away from his friend’s earnestness. “It would’ve been weird if Kyphon was twice Loog’s age.”

Dimitri let out one of his signature booming laughs, drawing the irate attention of some nearby lords. He hunched his broad shoulders, the tips of his ears reddening, but before he could apologize, a gentle, rhythmic bell chime filled the garden.

Those assembled quieted instantly, listening to the pleasant sound as it approached. This must be it, Felix thought with a heady spike of alarm. That must be her. But was it _her_?

His hands held the arms of his chair in a death grip as the Holy Maiden came into view - as that mint-green hair, so elegantly styled now, streamed past him again, stark against the snow and the blood in his memory, yet so at home amongst the vibrant greenery of the royal gardens. When she stopped in the center of the stage and the first drum beat thrummed in the ground beneath his feet, when she called plaintively for Loog, when she turned her head and he caught a glimpse of shining seafoam-

It _was_ her. It was _Bel_. 

Understanding struck him like an arrow from the fog; her intense secrecy, her coif, the strict times when she could visit - she hadn’t been afraid that he would report her. She’d been afraid he would _recognize_ her. 

As the Holy Maiden of the Church of Seiros.

Amidst his revelations, Felix was vaguely aware that Dimitri had gone to answer the summons, and soon it would be his own turn to approach at the drum’s measured pace. It took every ounce of his meticulously amassed discipline to climb steadily to his feet and follow the ceremony, feeling Rodrigue’s dissecting gaze on his back as he went.

He stepped numbly toward the stage, his field of vision limited to a blurry circle around Bel; she was turning now, her hair spinning around her like a shroud, the diaphanous trimmings of her dress floating upward like wings. Ambient sounds gradually faded as he grew closer until all he could hear was the deep bass of the drum and the delicate tones of the bells she wore; everything else, even his own heartbeat, even his own breathing, waned to nothing in her presence. He balanced on a quiet edge, suspended.

\---Part 2: Byleth---

She went immediately back to their time at the lake.

They were two strangers on opposite sides of a crackling fire, bleeding their frustrations into the space between them. Byleth was disguised instead of painted and Felix was cloaked rather than decorated; the moon was a waxing wedge to the east and snow surrounded them on all sides.

Now, only Loog’s jagged crown separated them, but their eyes were locked the same as before.

 _Bel_ , he mouthed, barely bringing his hands up to grasp the crown in time with the drum; for just that one beat, its low reverberation lent her use of the organ the Goddess had taken from her.

It _was_ him. Felix - _her_ Felix, her secret friend - was the Fraldarius heir.

Byleth knew she should be stepping away to begin the Gift. She had only moments to assume her next pose. But instead her hands inched along the outside of the crown until she could brush her index finger over his. Felix looked down, then back up, his gaze as misty and unfocused as she felt, and returned the motion.

The drum hit; its vibrations shivered through the crown, through their point of contact, a pulsing reminder that they’d both missed their marks.

Byleth’s trance broke, cracking like spring ice around her, and she saw the same instant change in him; they backed away from each other as slowly as they had come together, moving to their next positions at ritual pace. But she didn’t avert her eyes until the last possible second - and neither did he.

A beat later, and both exactly one beat behind, she had taken up the Gift’s starting pose, and he had placed the crown on the prince’s head. 

“With this, you are blessed,” Byleth recited, and the month of practice kept her voice strong. The movements of the dance came fluidly to her limbs and the bells’ keen peals helped to compose her roiling mind. 

It was just one beat, hardly two seconds of time; in all likelihood, only the vessels and those performing had even noticed. Stolen glances at Rhea and Seteth confirmed their continued placidity - if they had seen anything, they weren’t showing it, and this small comfort kept her on an even keel for the rest of the Gift. She resolutely kept her eyes on the sky or the stage floor to maintain it. 

The final, flourishing step mimicked the Goddess’s infusion of vigor to Loog and the land. She swept her arms up over the course of several drum hits, stretching as high as she could on the balls of her feet. On the very last beat, she lunged forward with arms outstretched - like a bird of prey, she’d often thought during practice, though it was _supposed_ to look like the Goddess’s true form - and came to a freezing stop in front of the prince. The jolt made all of her bells ring out at once, accentuated by the absence of the drum.

“And with this, you are empowered,” she said, slowly straightening her posture. “Go now to your lands and make them rich, to your people and make them prosper, and may your blood continue strong in perpetuity.”

The prince stood, still regarding her with far too much piety for comfort, and backed respectfully away. Felix lingered - too long, judging by the annoyed looks on some of the nobles’ faces in the crowd - but eventually followed suit, his eyes shuttered and unreadable.

As was proper, the audience left first. Byleth remained still, focusing on the wooden ceremonial crown that remained in the prince’s vacated chair. The oracle made so much more _sense_ to her now; she’d asked a question based on wrong assumptions, and the prophecy had taken a blood toll in an attempt to correct them.

Showing her the crown had been a good idea, in theory. If she had paid closer attention to her lessons, she would have already seen its likeness and been able to connect the blood sign to it, and then to Kyphon and House Fraldarius. Perhaps then she could have avoided her misstep.

Silently, she apologized for chastising Sothis that morning. The Goddess had simply not accounted for Her vessel’s vast incompetence.

\---

Byleth shivered in her seat. The persistent chill bit through to her bones, even through the many layers of her ceremonial robes, cape, veil, and hair drape. The gardens and the drawing room had been so warm and insulated, she theorized, that her body must have forgotten about the frigid early winter conditions outside.

The open litter, borne by six royal knights, was just big enough inside to seat two comfortably. There was room for its occupants to stretch their legs out, which both Byleth and Mercedes had gratefully done after their long trek through the castle, and a small depression in the center for refreshments, which Byleth had respectfully declined. 

“Are you sure you don’t want tea?” Mercedes asked, concerned. “Or a blanket?”

Byleth stubbornly shook her head. She wanted maximum mobility to see as much of the city as she could on their way through. Additionally, the Holy Maiden fumbling a teacup in front of Fhirdiad’s populace was not a fate she cared to tempt.

A long procession stretched out in front of and behind the palanquin, with each section waiting for its turn to pass the castle gates and enter the main streets. At the head rode Rhea and Seteth, protected by an honor guard of senior knights and Jeralt; they were so far up that Byleth had to crane her neck for a glimpse of cropped white hair.

Behind that was the Lord Regent with a retinue of highly-ranked nobles, flanked and followed by the rest of the knights, and then the lower-ranked lords. 

The bright blue, four-post palanquin draped with silks and white lilies formed the very center of the procession. Since they were still confined to the courtyard, their guards hadn’t formed ranks yet.

Trailing them were the courtiers and lords’ families and their escort of foot soldiers, and then, in the very back, rode the musicians and entertainers.

Byleth looked around for the lords’ heirs, finally spotting a distant splotch of bright yellow and blue by the stables. The prince led the other young nobles in a long line of horses, all of which were headed straight for the palanquin.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Mercedes said, giggling at Byleth’s surprised reaction. “Lord Seteth arranged for this earlier today.”

She leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You’ve already seen those two, but you probably don’t know their names yet,” she said, subtly indicating the prince and Felix, “Dimitri is very kind; I’m sure he’ll be a perfect gentleman. Felix is-” her tone faltered for a moment, “-less sociable, but please don’t take anything he says to heart. He’s a good person, deep down.”

Byleth kept her face blank. _Don’t I know it_. 

She folded her hands in her lap, smoothing her thumb over the place where their fingers had touched during the ceremony. His identity didn’t feel real to her yet; it was more like she was living out one of Flayn’s complex daydreams, and could wake any moment at Seteth’s desk.

“That’s Sylvain,” Mercedes continued, pointing to the third man in line. Her strained smile turned even further toward a frown. “Actually, you may need to disregard _his_ greeting, too. Ingrid is a fine lady with strong morals - I think the two of you would get along well.” She perked up when the rest of the line came into view. “Oh, there’s Annette! She was my first friend in the Kingdom. Really, she’s more like a sister.”

Byleth nodded, understanding the sentiment completely.

“That’s Ashe. He’s shy, so please understand if he’s quiet, but he really is a gentle soul. And finally, Dedue. He’s _always_ quiet, but not because he’s unkind. Actually, he’s one of the warmest people I know.” Mercedes smiled, resuming her normal posture. “There are more in our age group, of course. You’ll have your hands full remembering everyone at your first estate party."

Her words were teasing, but they only inspired dread in Byleth. If she couldn’t even remember the lyrics to some of the temple hymns, how was she going to keep dozens of nobles’ names and titles memorized? 

Before she could worry about it too much, though, the line was upon them.

“Lady Byleth,” Dimitri said, bowing as low as he could on horseback. He rode up beside the palanquin on Byleth’s side, careful not to crowd the pole-bearers. “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of Faerghus. And these,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the line, “are my closest friends. We will be escorting you back to Garreg Mach today.”

Byleth, unsure how to properly respond, defaulted to the modes of address used within the Church. She inclined her head and placed a hand over her heart. “It is a pleasure, Your Highness.” Her manner of speech, which had been growing steadily less orthodox around Mercedes as the day went on, snapped back to convention. “You played the role of Loog wonderfully.”

He laughed bashfully, taking up his formation spot at the head of the open litter. “Oh, no, not at all. You were- I mean, your performance was-”

“ _Incandescent_ ,” Sylvain interrupted, sliding into the space the prince had vacated. “Really, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time; it was like the Goddess Herself had descended into the gardens.” He flashed her a radiant smile. “Sylvain Jose Gautier.”

She suddenly understood Mercedes’ earlier warning, wilting beneath the lavish praise.

“ _Sylvain_ , it’s not your turn!” Ingrid rode up and strong-armed Sylvain into position, then looked back, panicked. “Oh, now I’ve broken the order, too- I’m-” she cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and bowed her head. “Please forgive us, Your Grace. I am Ingrid Brandl Galatea, at your service.”

Byleth nodded serenely, wanting to reassure this young woman that she actually enjoyed the swarm of activity. “It is quite all right,” she said, channeling Rhea.

When Ingrid had finished positioning herself and Sylvain in the escort formation, Felix rode up. Byleth noticed with a shock of delight that he was wearing her scarf.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” he said, face and voice exaggeratedly neutral, and placed a hand over his heart. “It’s good to meet you, Lady Byleth.”

She returned the salute, unable to suppress the tiny smile that pulled on her lips; he mirrored it, but only for an instant. “You as well, Lord Felix,” she said. It was odd to see him speak and act so formally, and it seemed his friends - or should she call them _sparring partners_? - agreed.

“Whoa,” Sylvain drawled, half-turned in his saddle. “Where did _that_ come from?”

Felix’s expression fell to its usual vague discontent; he hastened to his assigned place. “Shut up,” he snapped as he rode past Sylvain, who chuckled in response.

Ingrid and Dimitri, who’d also looked askance at Felix’s behavior, chose not to comment.

Next in line was Annette; up close, her bright eyes and cheerful, ruddy cheeks reminded Byleth so strongly of Flayn that she had to look twice.

“Hello! I’m Annette Fantine Dominic,” she said with a small wave. Infected by her sunny disposition, Byleth waved back. “Mercie’s my best friend, so we’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other at Garreg Mach.”

Now it was Ingrid’s turn to twist in her saddle. “They’re letting you into the monastery?” 

Though his bearing suggested nonchalance, Felix turned his head slightly as well.

Annette nodded, taking her position. “Well, yeah. I just had to ask Lord Seteth for the same permissions His Highness has.”

Sylvain and Felix made simultaneous noises of disbelief.

“ _You_ can get into the monastery?” Sylvain asked, jabbing an accusing finger toward Dimitri. “Why did you never tell me this?”

The prince looked back over his shoulder, confused. “Of course my uncle and I have access to the Archbishop. What would we do in an emergency, otherwise?”

“Um-” a timid voice redirected Byleth’s attention. “I am Ashe Ubert Gaspard, Your Grace. It is- it is an honor to make your acquaintance.” Rigid with nerves, Ashe spurred his horse on before she could reply.

The final one in line, a tall, broad man that Mercedes had identified as Dedue, rode up. “Dedue Molinaro,” he said, offering a Church salute. Once Byleth returned it, he nodded and departed for his place.

 _A stoic one_ , she thought, concurring with Mercedes’ summaries of her friends.

“We’re moving out,” Dimitri called, and the formation quieted.

The palanquin lurched forward as the slow-moving procession snaked its way through the castle gate; Mercedes provided a supportive arm so that Byleth didn’t have to cling to the wooden posts.

Outside, at the top of the hill on which Castle Blaiddyd sat, she got a panoramic view of the festivities she’d only glimpsed from the carriage window before. People lined the main street from the outer castle walls all the way to the western gate of Fhirdiad, packed tightly onto the sidewalks and overflowing into the alleys between buildings.

Byleth stayed mostly silent while they were inside the city, spending all of her energy returning the prayers and salutes of the crowd and taking in as much festivity as possible. By the time they reached the western gate, the bottom of the palanquin was flooded with roses and lilies, Byleth’s cheeks ached from smiling, and her saluting arm felt ready to fall off of her body.

All the while, whenever she had time to breathe, she snuck quick, subtle glances at Felix; more often than not, she found him staring back, though he always averted his eyes when caught. The look on his face in those moments was inquisitive and a little frustrated - much the same as her feelings on the matter. They desperately needed to talk, but had absolutely no opportunity for it.

When the better part of the procession had exited the city, transitioning from a crowded cobblestone street to an empty dirt-and-gravel one, everyone’s mood seemed to collectively lighten. The tight protective formations of the upper sections relaxed, with many riders moving farther up or down the line.

“Annie,” Mercedes called after a few minutes. “I promised to tell Lady Byleth about Fhirdiad’s winter parties. Do you know where the next one is being held?”

In contrast with the forward formations, the palanquin’s escort suddenly crunched in more tightly; it seemed there were several parties keen on this topic.

Annette gave Mercedes a mischievous look that said she knew exactly what her friend was up to. “Gosh, I don’t think there’s another one scheduled until the Midwinter Ball - what a shame.”

In a flash, Sylvain’s mop of bright red hair popped up next to Mercedes’s side of the litter. “We could have one at my place. My father is always ready to entertain a dignitary; I bet it could be arranged as early as next week!”

“That’s pretty short notice for a guest list,” Ingrid said dubiously. “But I agree. Margrave Gautier wouldn’t turn down a chance to host the Holy Maiden. Oh- assuming you wish to attend, Your Grace,” she added quickly.

All eyes turned to Byleth, who felt miniscule under their scrutiny. “Yes, of course. I want to get to know all of you better,” she said, rolling back the formality of her speech by the barest degree. 

“Yes!” Sylvain exclaimed. “Lady Byleth, as the host of this impromptu soiree, would you the allow me the honor of-”

“ _Oh_ , no, you don’t,” Ingrid interrupted hotly. “You promised your next outing to Count Rowe’s daughter.”

Sylvain waved his hand dismissively. “Did I? I don’t remember. Besides, why do you care? It’s not like you or Felix will attend.” 

Behind them, Ashe coughed politely. “You definitely did.”

“If I have to cover for you with Count Rowe one more time, it’ll be your _last_ outing,” Ingrid warned, drawing her horse alongside Sylvain’s.

Byleth tilted her head quizzically at Felix; a silent question. _Do you want to talk or not?_

He answered with a grimace and a slow, reluctant nod.

“I’ll attend,” he said.

Ingrid and Sylvain hushed their banter immediately. Even Dimitri, who had been observing their antics, stopped to stare.

“What?” Sylvain eventually asked, eyeing his friend as if he might have been replaced by an impostor.

Felix crossed his arms and repeated belligerently, “I said I’ll go to your stupid party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sylvain volunteers as tribute


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five days seems to be my groove for uploads, so I'm going to do my best to keep to that schedule :)
> 
> For everyone like me who's currently self-quarantining, hang in there!
> 
> Edit 3/20: we done [been blessed again](https://endspire.tumblr.com/post/613077315879043072/daughter-of-divinity-ch6-point-to-ashe-hi-im) by [endspire](https://endspire.tumblr.com/)!!

That night, Byleth wrapped herself in a thick blanket and sat on her balcony, looking out over Fhirdiad. Dozens of thoughts - hopes, realizations, fears - threaded through her mind, but none stuck; the darkness beyond the railing and her dense memories of the day were like second and third layers that pressed down on her, unmooring any attempts to process...anything.

But neither would her brain release her to sleep. When the pre-dawn birds stirred in their nests and sang out their first few notes, she was still on her balcony, staring blankly into the distance. 

The rest of the tower was, of course, silent. Byleth was the only one who got up this early, and she preferred it that way. The habit had formed in her childhood when Jeralt woke before the sun to train with his knights, and she kept it up willingly. Another rebellion, perhaps; it was the birds, and not the Church’s bells, that dictated her mornings.

As the bluish haze of dawn tinted the world outside, Byleth clearly heard a door open in another wing of the floor and the approaching thumps of socked feet on wood. The ensuing slam of her own door was not so surprising, then, nor was the trill of Flayn’s voice in the central room.

“Good morning! I am ready to hear _everything_ that happened yesterday,” Flayn sang, setting something onto the dining table with a click. “Do not spare a single minute, please!”

Despite her fatigue and her overburdened mind, Byleth smiled. She rose shakily to her feet and shuffled to the table, clutching her blanket around her shoulders. “Good morning,” she croaked, going immediately for a cup and a pitcher of water.

“Goodness,” Flayn said with considerable worry. “Father said you performed the ceremonies well and had a marvelous time in the city - was this not the case?”

Byleth shook her head, downed the water, and slumped into a chair. She wrapped her hands around one of the steaming bowls of soup that Flayn had brought, absorbing its warmth. “No, it was _amazing_ ,” she emphasized, trying to pick details out of the disorganized clump that was her memory. “So incredible that I can’t even describe-”

She reached one hand outside her blanket cape and across the table; Flayn took it in both of hers. After a fortifying sip of soup, Byleth murmured, “I met him again.”

“Him?” For a fraction of a second, Flayn looked confused, but then her mouth fell open; she glanced to the side, toward the loose floorboard that concealed many secret things. “ _Him_?”

Byleth nodded, fingers twitching as she remembered their brief contact during the Anointing. Haltingly, and with frequent soup breaks, she recounted the day’s events, leaving nothing out - much to Flayn’s delight. 

Strangely, the act of explaining helped to untangle the chaos in her mind, as well. By the end, she found herself not only reconciled, but eager for the future.

In contrast, Flayn had collapsed to the tabletop, head cradled atop folded arms.

“So you must pretend to be strangers now? How horrid!” Her expression, which had ranged from anxious to spellbound while listening, was now one of dismay. “This is not how the stories go at all.”

Byleth gently carded her fingers through Flayn’s hair, wondering why _she_ was the one doing the comforting in this situation. “I’m quite happy to be able to see him again, you know,” she said, biting back a laugh.

“Oh, yes, the party!” Flayn popped her head up again, tone shifting from one breath to the next. “Now that I think on it, perhaps this is simply an obstacle. A conflict to be overcome. Maybe at the party! You could find a secluded corner and-”

“Flayn,” Byleth said flatly.

“No, no - after everything that has happened, you cannot tell me that your continued meetings are anything but fate.” Flayn grinned confidently across the table. “The Goddess has guided you together for a reason, and I believe that reason is _lo_ -”

Byleth groaned over the rest of the sentence, perfectly aware of what Flayn wanted to say but desperately opposed to hearing it. “All right, all right, out with you! I’ll be late for lessons.”

\---

“Byleth,” Seteth prompted, rapping his knuckles on the edge of his desk. “I am aware that you had a long day yesterday, but do try to maintain the illusion of attention, please.”

She jerked awake, eyes snapping open as her feet kicked involuntarily under the desk. “Ah, sorry-” scrambling to rearrange her papers, she tried to remember the last thing Seteth had said, but it was all blurry noise. “-I didn’t sleep well.”

The walk to his chambers had stretched out infinitely; his office had seemed unusually cramped when she’d arrived. Her privileges over the last moon had spoiled her, she’d thought: spending so many consecutive mornings outside and in Flayn’s company, and then the hectic festivity of Founding Day, made this tiny, enclosed space more unbearable than normal.

Sympathy flashed in Seteth’s eyes. He stooped close to press the back of his hand against her forehead, humming lowly. “I wonder if we overtaxed you. Would you like to return to bed? I could ask Lady Martritz to visit another day.”

His words cut through the fog in her mind and she perked up instantly. “Mercedes is here?”

“Indeed,” Seteth said, drawing back with a wry smile. “She came all the way from the novitiates’ quarters to assist with your revised curriculum. But, if you are feeling unwell-”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, and then the rest of it caught up with her. “Revised curriculum?”

Seteth cracked open his office door and muttered a few words to an attendant outside, who rushed off. “Yes,” he said, ducking back inside the room’s translucent curtain. “I realized yesterday that certain areas of your education have been...woefully mismanaged.”

His tone was grave as he continued, “While Rhea and I disagree on the severity of this mismanagement, we have come to a compromise. If you assent to these changes, your schedule will be thus-” he leaned over the other side of his desk, dipping a quill and drawing a long box separated into the seven days of the week. 

“Your religious studies with me will take place at the beginning and the end of the week,” he said, marking Monday and Friday with a stylized ‘S.’ “One day will be devoted to horsemanship, taught by Count Galatea’s daughter-” he marked the Tuesday box with a ‘G,’ and then the Thursday box with an ‘M,’ “-and one day to social graces, led by our own Lady Martritz.”

Byleth looked over the illustration, tentative excitement pulling at the corners of her mouth. “What about the prayer-days?” She asked, indicating the empty boxes for Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday.

“Recall that this schedule is a compromise,” Seteth hedged, displeasure tinting his voice. “Rhea requested that you attend her for First Devotion every week.” He added an ‘R’ to the Wednesday box. “On these days, you will shadow her and perform most of her customary duties, including leading the evening oration.”

Her eyelids drooped at the mere mention of _duties_ and _oration_ , but Byleth pressed on diligently, “So, Second and Third Devotion?”

Seteth arched a knowing eyebrow, replacing his quill in its case and leaving the remaining boxes blank. “Lady Martritz informed me that these days are most common for young nobles’ outings, and so they have been reserved for this purpose.”

Rather than the question she’d intended, a decidedly undignified grunt left Byleth’s mouth. She bowed her head to clear her throat, hoping that no unlucky messengers had picked that moment to walk past the room. 

“ _Two_ days, free?” She asked incredulously, looking up to a highly amused Seteth.

He tapped the Wednesday box with the tip of one finger. “A compromise, as I said.” His arms disappeared back into his wide sleeves, folded elegantly. “On those days, you may receive visitors here at the monastery, or accompany a trusted individual outside. Keep in mind,” he added, noting the quickly rising zeal on his student’s face, “I must approve of any person or destination beforehand, and my word is final.”

Byleth grinned, seeing past this warning to the indulgence beyond. “Thank you, Seteth. I gladly accept this schedule. Oh,” she added, memory sparking, “yesterday I was invited to a gathering-”

“Ah, yes, the Gautier boy.” Seteth spat the name like it was poison. “You have my permission, provided you choose a morally upstanding partner for the evening.” 

She cocked her head to the side. “Partner?” _For dancing_? Her thoughts went to the harvest dance, where she and Flayn performed synchronously.

“It is traditional to attend these events in pairs, yes,” Seteth explained. “If wed, one’s partner is their spouse. If unwed, one entreats another to accompany them.”

Byleth remembered the palanquin ride and Sylvain’s aborted question; that was probably what he’d wanted to say, she thought, relieved that Ingrid had intervened. Sylvain was kind and charismatic, but it seemed that Seteth had some sort of problem with him.

“Does my partner need to be unwed? Can I ask someone older?” She asked, the tiny seed of an idea forming in her mind. “When is the right time to ask? Must I wait to be approached?”

Seteth held up one hand, silencing any further questions. “It is quite acceptable to invite someone older. Attending with one’s parent or guardian, for example, is common,” he said with a small, hopeful smile. “There is no strict time limit or window, but it is polite to ask in person, rather than through a letter or a messenger.”

“Oh,” she said, contemplating her options. The party was only a week away; she’d need to secure a partner soon. “Then, when I’ve made my choice, may I visit them for the purpose of invitation?”

He inclined his head. “You may.” A gentle knock came upon the door, and he continued, “That will be Lady Martritz. You are dismissed to your first etiquette lesson.”  
  


\---

The residential tearoom, situated on the common floor, three-fourths of the way up the tower, was a public space intended for the higher clergy. Byleth - nor any of the vessels, she suspected - had never utilized it, only passed it on her way down the central staircase. With twice-daily tea delivery to their own chambers, there was little need to come here.

But Mercedes had insisted on sitting here, in one of the private booths partitioned with heavy drapes. The other booths’ occupants had cleared out in short order when the Holy Maiden walked in. Byleth knew it wasn’t out of fear - Seteth had explained this to her soon after her arrival, so many years ago - but out of a distant sort of awe. One might find it difficult to casually drink tea next to one’s main figure of worship.

“So, what do we...do?” Byleth asked, looking over the assortment of tiny metal tins and delicate cups that Mercedes had set out on a tray. She’d never seen tea _prepared_ before - only had it brought to her.

Mercedes smiled and removed the lids to the tins, revealing many different colors and fragrances of tea leaves. “Well, I thought we could start simple. Pick your favorite.”

Ignorance clouded her judgment, made her hands hesitate over the tray. “I don’t know how to discern them,” Byleth admitted, frowning. Eventually she picked a tin of dark leaves interspersed with some small, rich-smelling lumps she couldn’t identify. “I suppose this one?”

“Ooh, a black tea with cloves,” Mercedes said, taking the tin and placing a spoonful into a white porcelain teapot that matched the cups. “I had a feeling you’d like a strong one.”

She lifted a kettle from its hook in the center of the table, where it hung over a small fire, and poured steaming water into the pot, then covered it with a dainty lid. “After adding the leaves and the water, we wait until the tea is done steeping. This variety takes about six minutes.”

Byleth squinted at the teapot and wondered if measuring time down to the minute was a skill that regular people possessed.

“You’ll get a feel for it after a while,” Mercedes said, giggling. “In the meantime, we’ll have a nice chat. Remember to keep your hands and arms off of the table, though.”

Byleth scrambled to fold her hands in her lap, chastising herself mentally for already breaking a rule. “What should we talk about?”

“Oh, anything,” Mercedes said, and after a moment, prompted, “What’s on your mind?”

Seteth’s lecture, Felix, and the party swirled chaotically around in her thoughts, but there was something else Byleth was curious about. “Why did you leave the Empire?” Seeing the way Mercedes’s face fell, she quickly added, “If that’s too serious of a topic-”

“Not at all,” Mercedes reassured, shaking her head. “It’s certainly unusual, so I understand your interest, but my circumstances are rather unpleasant. Do you still want to know?”

“Yes,” Byleth said, remembering the similar answer she’d given to Felix - _it’s not a pleasant story_ \- with a pang of empathy. 

“The house I was born into - House Martritz - fell when I was very young. The head of House Bartels married my mother and took us in, and she thought it was a fortunate match at the time, but-” Mercedes paused, her kind expression wavering for a mere instant, but Byleth said nothing; she knew this struggle for composure well.

“When my mother bore her new husband a son, all of the Martritz lands and titles legally passed to him - or rather, to Baron Bartels, who would act as steward until the child was old enough to inherit.” Once more, Mercedes paused to gather herself, taking a deep breath. 

“After that, it was plain that my mother and I were no longer welcome. We fled to the Kingdom and the Church granted us sanctuary. In return, we’ve devoted ourselves to the Goddess. Don’t look so sad, please,” she said, smiling faintly. “This was all a long time ago, and I’m quite happy with my life as it is now. I have friends and faith, and my mother lives her days in peace.”

Byleth looked down at her hands, deeply ashamed to have brought such a painful tale to the surface. “Thank you for telling me,” she said quietly. 

“Of course, Your Grace. And look, the tea is done steeping,” Mercedes said, lifting the small, wire-mesh dish that held the leaves out of the teapot and setting it aside. She filled two fine white cups and placed one in front of Byleth, gesturing to a bowl of sugar cubes. “Why don’t we discuss something more enjoyable?”

Gently lowering a cube into her cup to avoid splashing any tea, Byleth nodded her assent, silent for fear of saying something else that was insensitive. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy; if the past few minutes were any indicator, she was truly in need of these lessons.

“Have you thought about a partner for the party?” Mercedes asked conversationally, adding two sugar cubes to her own cup.

Byleth reached for her teacup, but halted the movement at the subtle shake of her teacher’s head. _Right_. She had to wait for it to cool. “Ah- yes,” she said sheepishly, replacing her hands in her lap. “But how did you know I needed a partner?”

“I advised Father Seteth on the particulars last night,” Mercedes said. “So, who are you considering? I’m sure anyone you met yesterday would be happy to escort you.”

“Actually,” Byleth said, wearing a mischievous smile that Mercedes looked rather shocked to see, “I’ve received permission to ask him in person. After this, would you like to accompany me?”

\---

For the second day in a row, Byleth found herself in a carriage on the way to Fhirdiad. This time, she was dressed more casually in the loose day-to-day robes of the higher clergy, with her hood up and her veil in place.

Mercedes sat opposite her, enjoying the wind that blew through the open windows. “I’m not sure this counts for what I’m supposed to be teaching you, but it really is nice to be outside,” she said.

“Sure it counts,” Byleth said obstinately, watching Fhirdiad’s western gate grow bigger as they neared it. “Inviting someone to a gathering requires etiquette, right?”

Mercedes tilted her head, frowning doubtfully, but didn’t argue.

\---

The Knights’ Hall was a towering stone structure that joined to the outermost wall of Castle Blaiddyd, the last line of defense between the city and the royal family. Its plain, utilitarian design matched the rest of the castle and most of the older buildings in town, a relic of a turbulent bygone age when architects had no time for the luxury of aesthetics.

Mercedes had elected to direct their driver to the back entrance; after seeing the throngs of people in the main streets - Founding Day was only yesterday, after all, and many were not ready to stop celebrating yet - Byleth was immensely grateful for this decision. A Church carriage around the castle was not such a strange sight, and a veiled Sister with a novice in tow drew little attention from a distance.

The two entered with minimal difficulty, needing only to return the holy salute that the back doors’ guards offered them in passing. Byleth filed this information away for later, finding its potential both useful and disconcerting. On one hand, a veil and a priest’s robe could get her most places in the city - but on the other, it seemed that the people of Faerghus, or at least the guards, trusted the cloth a bit too much. 

“Could you direct us to the Knight-Captain?” Mercedes asked a footman in the hall, and he led them down a stark corridor to a set of heavy, metal-banded oaken doors.

“How might I introduce you, Sister?” The man asked in a demure, polite tone, to which Byleth spluttered something unintelligible. How indeed? The very last thing she wanted was to formalize this visit, to have everyone in a mile’s radius prostrating themselves and leaking platitudes from every orifice.

Mercedes stepped between them smoothly, blocking Byleth from view. “No introductions are necessary. We have no official appointment with the captain, and do not wish to interrupt his business.”

The footman nodded, bowed low, and departed for his previous post.

“You saved me,” Byleth muttered as he walked away, clutching her chest over her heart. The damn thing didn’t even beat, and yet she now felt she understood the meaning of _heart palpitations_.

“I think next week we’ll work on enunciation,” Mercedes teased, pulling open the heavy doors. 

Beyond them was a large room, open to the sky and with a floor of packed earth, that looked to be a training area. Various martial equipment and racks of wooden weapons lined the walls, along with straw targets and practice dummies. The monastery had a place like this, too, but much smaller; she and Rhea had spent many an afternoon crossing swords there.

Her father stood at the front of the room, overseeing several younger fighters that were undergoing drills toward the back. Byleth approached him respectfully, waiting to be acknowledged and taking the opportunity to compare him to the Jeralt of her childhood.

He was older now, of course. His hair, once shot through with blonde, was now entirely white, but still cut into its customary style and pulled back at the base of his neck. If he had any more wrinkles now, Byleth couldn’t tell; the lines on his face, sorrow and joy - but mostly sorrow - had been etched deeply as far back as she could remember.

Jeralt was in no rush to receive visitors from the Church, she thought, because he kept his eyes glued to his charges, only sliding them away after nearly a minute of silence. “What can I do for you, Sister?” He asked, tone as curt as it could be without crossing the line into rudeness.

When his eyes finally reached her, though, they widened, and his arms dropped from their defensive fold. “Bel?” He breathed, and then, when she gave him a tiny wave in greeting, said louder, “Bel!”

He gathered her up in a tight hug, grinning widely like he hadn’t been wearing the sourest of scowls just a few moments prior. “They let you out, huh? That was fast.”

Byleth grimaced behind her veil. “Not...exactly,” she said. “I got permission to invite someone to next week’s party.”

“Right, the kids have been talking about that nonstop,” Jeralt said, laughing as he released her, but then his head jerked to the side, tone sharpening once more. “Hey! I never said it was break time - get that blade up, Fraldarius!”

Byleth’s head turned with the same, sudden motion, and she locked eyes with a startled Felix, who promptly took a heavy axe blow to his side and stumbled backward, cursing. 

Ashe, who had delivered the blow, looked around, seemingly oblivious to his opponent’s state of distraction. “Everyone saw that, right?” He called out excitedly. “I scored a point against Felix!”

Shifting his attention back to his daughter, Jeralt continued, “So, you’ve come to invite one of my knights? Please tell me it’s not Gautier.” He made no attempt to lower his voice, prompting a distant noise of complaint from the man in question.

“Is that the Holy Maiden?” Sylvain called, splitting his attention between the front of the room and Ingrid, his sparring partner. “Lady Byleth, have you reconsidered my offer?”

Jeralt rolled his eyes and barked, “Next person that talks earns an extra two hours of drills for the whole unit!” A dismal chorus of moans rose to answer him, but none protested.

Byleth concealed a smile behind her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Felix had soundly won his match and was now standing to the side, waiting for another opponent to be free. He wasn’t watching her - not directly, anyway - but when she shifted, so did he, as if he were keeping her in his peripheral vision.

“I’m here to invite _you_ ,” she said, chuckling at the way her father’s eyes lit up at the notion. Was he really so surprised? “On the eighth day of the Ethereal Moon, would you accompany me to Margrave Gautier’s estate?”

His gruff, disciplined expression broke for only a moment, letting through the doting father before shoring back up into the hardened knight. “Of course, kiddo,” he said, squeezing her shoulder affectionately. “I’ll pick you up at the monastery. Can you still sit a horse?”

She thought back to yesterday’s queasy carriage ride, and the echoes of that unbalanced feeling that had rocked her stomach today. “Not well, I suspect,” she said, reluctant to admit such a thing to the Kingdom’s best horseman. “But Ingrid will be giving me lessons on Tuesdays.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jeralt turned to his knights again. “Galatea, get up here!”

Ingrid and Sylvain disengaged, bowing simultaneously to denote a tie. Before she could answer the summons, however, Felix caught her by the arm and muttered something, face turned and voice too low to hear. Ingrid visibly stiffened, but nodded, and then jogged to the front of the room wearing an odd, conflicted expression. 

“Captain,” she said, saluting him first in military fashion - with her arms straight at her sides - and then turning to salute Byleth in Church fashion. “Lady Byleth.”

Jeralt nodded his approval. “Think you can have my daughter ready to ride by the eighth?”

The strange tightness in Ingrid’s face twisted further. “Your _daughter_?” She exclaimed, drawing the eyes of the other knights, then reined herself in. “I mean- yes, sir, of course. That won’t be a problem.” 

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at Felix, who waved one hand in a ‘ _go on_ ’ gesture. “Also, sir, shouldn’t we be offering Her Grace some sort of- hospitality?” Her voice came out halting and rough, like each word tore unwillingly from her tongue.

Jeralt’s mouth fell open and Byleth suppressed a laugh; he hadn’t even thought of that, she’d bet. Beside her, Mercedes giggled.

“Everyone - break for lunch!” He called to the field, running an exasperated hand down his face. “Sorry. I’m no good at hosting.”

“It’s quite all right, Captain,” Mercedes said, smiling sweetly. “If someone could show me to the kitchen, I’ll arrange for tea to be brought to your office?”

Jeralt shrugged apologetically at Ingrid, who nodded and led Mercedes away by the arm. “She’s a good kid,” he said, inclining his chin toward Ingrid as she left. “I couldn’t have chosen a better riding instructor for you. Oh, I should get cleaned up.” He looked down at his dusty training outfit, wiping a miniscule bit of dirt off his belt in vain. “If you go out the other door and turn right, my office is the last one at the end. Think you’ll be okay by yourself?”

Byleth swallowed a knee-jerk sarcastic response, the kind she might have fired at Seteth; on some level, she knew that it would take her father some time to see her as anything but a fresh-faced ten-year-old. “Yes, I’ll be fine,” she said instead, and he flashed her a warm smile before heading off.

What she’d failed to mention, and what Mercedes had obviously failed to account for, was that - outside of her own chambers - the Holy Maiden was _never_ supposed to be alone. She hurried across the open center of the training room, now emptied of knights, to the exit that Jeralt had specified.

It would be fine - probably. How many people outside the Church would know about that rule, anyway? And, within that number, how many would care enough to report it? Not many, she reasoned, walking down the hall at a fast-but-still-acceptable pace. And if she made it to her father’s office without being seen, it wouldn’t even be a problem.

Deep in her thoughts, she failed to notice the creak of a door opening as she passed it, or the soft footfalls that fell into step beside her.

When Byleth paused her line of thinking to cast a cursory glance around the hall, she nearly lept out of her skin, only avoiding an unseemly yelp by clapping a hand over her mouth.

“You have zero situational awareness,” Felix observed, smirking down at her. “What are they teaching you at Garreg Mach?”

Byleth narrowed her eyes, reddening at his taunting tone and how easily he'd caught her. “ _Manners_ , for one,” she slung back. “Do you often sneak up on ladies walking alone?”

“No,” he replied, taking on a more serious edge as he added quietly, “It _is_ you.”

She tilted her head. “Of course it’s me,” she said, but she knew what he meant. The Anointing must have been just as shocking for him as it was for her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

When they reached Jeralt’s office, he followed her in but stayed close to the door. “I didn’t tell you, either,” he said plainly, unapologetically. “I didn’t want you to treat me differently, and I expect you felt the same.”

Byleth nodded, leaning against a wide wooden desk she assumed to be her father’s. “I still do,” she said, and then cautiously added, “Do you?”

His eyes, fixed on a bookshelf to her left, slid to her face. “Yes. I’ve never cared about titles or positions.” He laughed thinly. “Though I do understand the need for decorum in public.”

Hope quickened her breathing. “Then, we can be friends?” She asked before she could think, only belatedly remembering his issues with the term.

But Felix only smiled, recalling that exhausted, deceptively kind man she’d met in the forest. “Sure. Friends.” His mouth slanted in contemplation and he continued, “Come to the lake tonight.”

“What? Why?” Byleth nearly laughed, as it was getting much too cold for a comfortable evening of fishing, but then realized he had no way of knowing that. Idly, she wondered if he’d already visited, expecting her presence.

“Just do it,” he insisted wearily. His eyes flicked to her hood and veil, then away again. “And- don’t wear those,” he said, subdued, “when it’s just us.”

Caught off-guard by his earnestness, Byleth could only nod, bewildered by the heat blooming in her chest. “Okay,” she agreed, but had scarcely gripped the fur trim of her hood when Jeralt appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, you found it,” he said, smoothing down a clean and hastily-buttoned shirt. He faltered at the uncomfortable expression on Byleth’s face, then followed her gaze to his office’s other occupant, brow creasing.

Felix went as still as the dead.

“He’s assisting me,” Byleth said quickly, stepping forward as if she might physically block her father’s ire. “I’m not supposed to go unaccompanied.”

Jeralt blinked, face clearing in comprehension. “Oh,” he said, continuing on to his desk. “Well, good job then, Fraldarius. You’re dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extorting ingrid for fun and profit


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3/22: yall it happened again, we got a super amazing [ch. 7 comic](https://endspire.tumblr.com/post/613349163709693952/daugher-of-divinity-ch7-horse-hi-im-still) by [endspire](https://endspire.tumblr.com/)!!

“That is _obviously_ not what I meant,” Seteth groused, trailing Byleth into her chambers. “And, quite frankly, I am disappointed that Lady Martritz went along with this behavior.”

Byleth fell backwards onto her bed and let out a long, relieved breath, too exhausted to care about whatever Seteth was saying. Her sleepless night, staved off before by nerves and tea, had crashed into her all at once on the carriage ride home, and now all she wanted to do was sink into her blankets and drift.

“In the future, if you intend to leave the monastery grounds, you must specify this to me or to Rhea - _Byleth_ , are you listening?” His footsteps stopped abruptly in her doorway and she could hear the impotent frustration in the click of his heel; despite his status as a Saint’s vessel, he was still an unwed man, and thus barred from entering her bedroom.

“Mm,” Byleth said, turning her head to peer up at him. “I won’t do it again,” she promised around a wide yawn that made her jaw ache.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Seteth huffed, but his eyes were soft. “What if something had happened to you?” He asked quietly, hands fisting in the fabric of his sleeves.

Byleth pushed herself up on her elbows. “It didn’t,” she said, locking eyes with him. “Because the companion you chose for me is careful and experienced.”

After a handful of tense seconds, Seteth relented, exhaling through his nose and curtly dipping his head. “We are agreed on that, at least,” he said. “I will see you in the morning for religious studies.”

As he turned to leave, Byleth saw an opportunity. “Wait,” she said, and then, after Seteth paused, “Will you make sure no one disturbs me until breakfast? I want to spend the evening recuperating.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, took in her wilted state, then nodded. “Of course. Rest well, Byleth.”

She let herself drop back onto her bed, bouncing once before settling amongst her pillows. As the front door to her chambers closed gently, she didn’t know what disturbed her more: Seteth’s easy trust in so undeserving a student, or her complete lack of remorse at the lie.

\---

The evening prayer bells roused her from a heavy, dreamless sleep, and she rose groggily to assume her disguise. Her body wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, but there would be time later for such things.

Lady Byleth fell easily away from her in layers: first the veil, then the robe, and finally her thin, flimsy footwear that was suited for nothing but tiny steps on even flooring.

In their place went Bel’s garments of choice: her cotton habit and cloak, warm and non-constrictive, the white coif that concealed her divinity, and thick, sturdy boots that made short work of the forest’s undergrowth. 

Cinching her sword belt, she attached Felix’s dagger to the extra slot she’d cut in the leather, running a finger along the inlaid silver crest of Fraldarius and smiling to herself in the dark. Just two days prior, her worldview and prospects were unimaginably different - and infinitely more dismal.

She placed a hand over her heart and offered a silent prayer to the Goddess, conceding that the scales of fortune had tipped in her favor, and perhaps Sothis knew what She was doing, after all.

\---

The path to the lake was strangely easy to tread, even though it should have been an icy, slippery hazard after nearly a month of disuse; closer inspection showed several sets of hoof tracks overlaid, some quite a bit newer than others. 

Her earlier suspicions came to the fore. They grew more pronounced when the cats didn’t answer her humming; they were confirmed when she reached the lakeshore and the distant orange glow of her fire pit spilled out over the frozen water.

She breathed a laugh to herself as she approached; he’d beaten her here, and by a significant amount of time, it seemed. A tall black riding horse was tethered to a tree nearby her fishing shelter, and Felix himself stood facing the fire, back turned.

Something was different about the shelter, though; Byleth stopped to examine it, and - yes, it was significantly more robust now. Someone had reinforced the woven-branch roof with pine boughs, extended the walls to partially encircle the fire pit, and put down a floor of reed rushes - atop which laid the missing cats, luxuriating in the trapped warmth.

“Did you do this?” Byleth asked in wonder, coming to stand beside him.

He looked down at her from a tilted angle. “Who else? I got bored,” he said, and his eyes, fire-brightened, traveled purposefully up to her coif, then back down to hers.

_Oh, right_.

She brought her hands to the white cloth, pulling it slowly down to rest against her neck, then unwound her long braid and laid it over one shoulder, each action punctuated by crackling embers. She told herself it was the ambient heat, and not his intense scrutiny through the whole process, that colored her cheeks.

Felix hummed in satisfaction, then unclasped his cloak - _her_ cloak - and hung it on one of the branches that protruded from the shelter’s roof. At his belt, aside from his usual swords, were two wooden practice blades; he tossed one to Byleth and held the other at the ready.

She caught it, grinning, and hung her own cloak up in a similar fashion, noting the way his eyes flicked over the dagger at her waist. The two moved away from the shelter to a patch of open ground, but instead of beginning with the Kingdom’s customary weapon salute that signified the start of a duel, Felix advanced immediately.

Her sparse lessons with Rhea - thrice a moon, if she was lucky - always followed the same pattern: Rhea would demonstrate a technique, then hold a defensive position while Byleth attempted to land it. After practicing it adequately, the two would work it into a sparring match, only finishing after Rhea was satisfied that her student grasped the concepts and movements she’d set out to instill.

But Felix was not Rhea, and he was not aiming to teach, but to win.

His attacks came swiftly and without mercy, forcing her onto the back foot from his very first strike and rapidly pushing her along the frozen shoreline. Byleth hadn’t faced an opponent like this in many, many years - and even when she _had_ , Jeralt was still cognizant that his pupil was a small child. 

Never had she experienced this level of force and aggression, of unbridled strength; she parried to the best of her ability, but her motions felt sluggish and weak next to his controlled flurry. Eventually her stamina flagged and a blow breached her defenses, landing hard against her shoulder.

Byleth hissed a line of steam into the cold air, planting a foot firmly in the snow and shoving him off. The jolt of the impact inspired more defiance than pain, and she went in low on the offensive to try to knock him off his balance. 

He jumped backward, brows raised in pleasant surprise when her blade made contact with his ankle - but she was woefully overextended, having put all her might into this maneuver, and he easily toppled her with a boot to the back of her knee.

She collapsed gracelessly, throwing out her forearm to avoid smashing her face into the hard ground, and raised her head to find the tip of his sword leveled at her nose.

“I yield,” she gasped, climbing laboriously to her feet.

Felix inclined his head and lowered his blade, only lightly winded and wearing a triumphant grin. “Your foundation is strong, but your teacher is a coward,” he said, ruthlessly precise in his assessment. “Surely the Blade-Breaker wasn’t responsible for this?”

Byleth took a moment to catch her breath, smiling ruefully. “Rhea - the Archbishop - oversees my training. She says that the Holy Maiden must know how to defend herself, but never be the instigator of violence.”

He made an abrupt snort of indignation. “That’s naive. Anyone who truly wanted you dead wouldn’t give a damn about your ethics.”

“I _know_ ,” she argued, rubbing her stinging shoulder. “But she’s my only option.”

His breath misted in the gap between them. “Hm,” he said in derisive disagreement with her statement, and then fell into a battle stance once more. “Again.”

\---

“Again,” Byleth growled, ignoring the ache in her joints, hauling herself up using her practice sword for leverage. Her breathing was ragged, her body a single, pulsing bruise, but she’d gotten _two_ hits in on him that last time - and the resulting flash of competitive approval in his eyes was alarmingly addictive.

But instead of obliging her this time, Felix sheathed his blade. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said, chuckling at her irate expression. “Your enthusiasm is good, but you’ll only injure yourself if you push too hard.”

His advice made sense, even if her mind, hungry for knowledge, insisted on overexertion. “Fine,” she shakily huffed in surrender, following him back to the shelter and plopping down next to the fire. The cats accommodated her, staring expectantly upward, and melted into a mass of contented purring when she reached down to scratch behind their ears.

She looked up to Felix watching her, mouth twitched ever so slightly upward, but the fondness in his eyes vanished when they passed over her hair, replaced with narrow unease. Similar to the last time, he’d taken a seat close to her but non-adjacent, and now he inched a mote closer.

“I knew the Captain had a daughter,” he began, diverting his gaze to the fire. “We all did. But he doesn’t talk about it much - he only said that she was with the Church and he couldn’t visit.” He took a deep breath, bracing his elbows on his knees, deep lines creasing his forehead. “I didn’t know that you- that they- _took_ you.”

Byleth exhaled slowly, releasing her remaining battle adrenaline along with the air in her lungs. She supposed they were going to have to discuss this at some point - it might as well be now.

“They did,” she confirmed. “They take everyone who transforms into a vessel. Because we house the divine, and because of what we can do.” To emphasize her point, she flared her healing magic to life, letting the heatless blue flames lick away the scrapes and bruises she’d sustained during their sparring.

_The Church teaches and protects us_ , she wanted to say, but the words died bitter in her mouth.

“And they just...locked you inside the monastery? All that time?” Felix asked harshly, reaching down to pet a cat that mewled for attention; it curled happily around his hand, creating an image that was in stark contrast with the tone of his voice. “How old were you?”

She leaned back on one arm, staring up into the night sky. “Ten,” she said, and heard his faint but sharp intake of breath. “And- yes. I found ways around it, obviously-” she gestured around at the shelter’s interior with her free hand, “-but yes. As Seteth often puts it: ‘The Goddess should have minimal contact with humanity.’”

“You’re not the Goddess,” he said quietly.

Byleth lowered her head, smiling at the slightly ashamed look on his face. “No, you’re right. I’m not,” she agreed plainly. “Maybe if I was, it wouldn’t be so hard to follow their rules.” Her voice came out more self-deprecating than she’d meant, and she winced, hoping that Felix hadn’t picked up on it.

“ _They_ shouldn’t get to take away your identity like that,” he insisted angrily. “I’ve seen how you act and talk under the Church’s watch - it’s different. Fake.”

She laughed hollowly. “Yes, that must’ve been a shock.”

“I hated it,” he spat, and the venom in his words made her jump. “It was like you didn’t care about anything. It was like you were _dead_.” He reined himself in enough to ask sincerely, “How much time do you spend pretending?”

Byleth turned her eyes upward again, this time to mask the emotion she knew they held. “Too much,” she confessed, blinking away tears. “But never here.” _Never with you_ , she thought, but kept it safely within, safely concealed.

“I know,” he said wryly. The two sat in silence for a few minutes while Byleth calmed down, sneakily swiping at the corners of her eyes.

“We can- meet here,” Felix said after a while, with much less confidence than before. When she glanced over, his eyes darted away, his face flushed and pinched. “As often as you want.”

A watery laugh bubbled out of her throat. “Thanks,” she mumbled, affection overtaking her previous distress. “But it’s getting too cold. Your horse will hate you.”

“Dimitri? He’s used to worse weather than this, but you might be right,” he commented, casting an eye over the horse, who stomped a hoof and craned its neck at the mention of its name.

Byleth choked on air, coughing and nearly doubling over with the force of it. The coughs morphed into laughter as she gained control over them. “You- you named your horse after- the Crown Prince?” She asked between gulps of air, clutching her stomach.

Felix looked away, smirking and running a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, well. The horse was a gift at my knighting ceremony. The prince and I didn’t get along at the time, and I thought it would be funny.” He shrugged. “And it was. It still is, when we go riding and he forgets about it.”

She went into another fit of giggling, imagining the Prince of Faerghus answering to commands clearly meant for a horse.

“Okay, it’s not _that_ funny,” Felix complained, ears reddening. Perhaps to deflect attention, he asked, “So if it’s too cold to come here, where else can we meet?”

Her laughter ended abruptly; he _wanted_ to see her. The realization warmed her more deeply than the fire. “Well,” she said, recalling her new schedule. “You could visit the monastery on prayer-days - er, weekends. But there would likely be _chaperones_ ,” she added, pronouncing the word as if it were a deadly disease. Felix frowned in similar disdain for the idea.

“Or,” she suggested hopefully, “I could visit your home in Fhirdiad?”

He swiped a thumb along his chin in contemplation. “I don’t see why not,” he said, nodding to himself as he thought through the proposal. “We have a large training hall, and I can make sure it’s empty.”

Byleth smiled at his eagerness. “You’ll have to formally request the day, though. Probably through Seteth,” she cautioned.

“Easy,” he said, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. “Very well, then. Saturdays or Sundays?” She tilted her head at the plurality and he clicked his tongue. “Training is nothing without regularity, and it’s going to take some time to unlearn all of those... _defensive_ maneuvers the Archbishop taught you.”

She blinked, wondering when he had asked to be her teacher, and when she had accepted. He regarded her steadily, imperiously, like he was daring her to question it, and so all she could do was laugh and say, “Saturdays.”

\---

Sleep came easily to her that night, drained both physically and spiritually as she was, and once again it was a blank, pictureless void from which she did not wake until the birds called her back.

She woke refreshed in all senses, optimistic and bouncing from one morning task to the next until Flayn and Seteth arrived with meal-bearing acolytes in tow.

“Good morning! Oh, this is a most promising improvement in mood,” Flayn said, pulling out a chair at the dining table.

Byleth grinned, sitting opposite her and inviting Seteth to do the same with a gesture. “Good morning. This is a surprise; you don’t have any business before our lesson?”

He grunted, casting an annoyed glance back out the door. “Unfortunately, I have so _much_ business today that our lesson must be cancelled.” He sat and gripped a spoon with the force he might use to grip his lance. “Honestly, when I sent out word of your prayer-day availability yesterday afternoon, I did not expect so many responses within twenty-four hours.”

Byleth’s spoon froze halfway to her bowl. “How many?”

Seteth’s shoulders sagged with the lethargy of a man who was in for a lot of paperwork. “Four in total. Of course, I must address them in order of rank, and host each lord separately to confirm the security standards of their House,” he said, staring down into his porridge like it might hold the solution to his problems. “This could take all weekend, so I suppose it is fortuitous that my mornings will be free.”

She set her spoon down with a soft clink. “Seteth, if this is too much trouble-”

“Not at all,” he insisted, and Flayn nodded vehemently at his side. “It is all for your education and future, Byleth. And in six years I will do it again, gladly,” he said, smiling down at his daughter.

Flayn hummed happily around a bite of her food. When she’d finished chewing, she asked, “Which Houses have made inquiries?”

Seteth wiped his mouth with a napkin. “House Blaiddyd requests a countryside ride on horseback. I must question His Highness as a formality, but I am quite sure that the royal family’s security practices are sufficient.” His voice grew more dour as he went on, “House Gautier wants an outing to a tea house in Fhirdiad, and I will politely inform Lord Sylvain that the monastery has perfectly adequate tea facilities.”

“House Dominic wishes to take you to a seamstress in the city in order to be outfitted for next week’s gathering,” Seteth continued, pausing to allow Flayn to gasp excitedly. “Provided that Baron Dominic satisfies my standards for protection, I see no reason to deny this.”

Byleth quietly ate her breakfast through his speech, pleased with the requests mentioned so far, but growing increasingly worried that Felix’s wasn’t among them. 

She nearly choked on her spoon when Seteth said, “The oddest one is from House Fraldarius; they have asked for a block of time on every Saturday for the foreseeable future - and for combat training, of all things.” He frowned across the table at Byleth, oblivious to Flayn’s manic grin. “Would that be of any interest to you?”

Byleth cleared her throat and took a sip of water to buy herself some time. Finally she said, “Yes, very much so,” and hoped that she sounded casual, that her expression was relaxed. “Rhea is so busy all the time; I fear I’ve fallen behind.”

“Hmm,” Seteth mused, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “That is true. Rhea and I would love for your self-defense skills to be stronger, but alas, there are only so many hours in the day.” He looked over at Flayn, who instantly schooled her face into neutrality. “And it would give me more time to devote to _your_ training, as well.”

He shifted in his chair contemplatively. “I will have to ensure that Lord Rodrigue has a long-term plan to safeguard your route to and from his estate-” he felt around his pockets, drawing out a small notebook, flipping through its pages and muttering to himself, “It is the strangest thing. I never knew his son to be the social type. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Flayn giggled behind her hand. “Perhaps he was simply enchanted with our dear Byleth; and who could blame him?”

Byleth lightly kicked Flayn’s foot under the table, shooting her a significant look before checking to see if she had raised any suspicions in her father.

“Perhaps,” Seteth agreed distractedly, scanning over a page with creased, focused eyes, his breakfast forgotten.

Both women sighed in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teenage felix: dimitri, get over here, you dumb animal
> 
> teenage dimitri and dimitri the horse: *both walk over*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since I want to devote all of chapter 9 to the party, this one ended up kinda long.
> 
> Also, if anyone's interested, [here's my mood playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3XxzBKwAKcj5HEfbd05Swm?si=drk0qF-vQ0OgCBbnbIRLnQ) for this AU!

The monastery’s library, a cavernous room that took up the first three floors of the academic tower, served a dual purpose: it housed a wealth of historical Church documents, scrolls, and works of art, and also provided a space for Garreg Mach’s students and acolytes to engage in independent study. 

Bookshelves covered the walls from floor to vaulted ceiling, carved into the wood of the tower, broken up by staircases and landings that were similarly inlaid. A ring of shorter, free-standing shelves framed an open central lecture area, which is where Seteth now sat, cross-legged on a plush cushion across from the Lord Regent.

The remaining lords, still waiting their turns, milled about the library’s first floor, perusing the shelves and speaking in hushed tones. 

“Is that him?” Flayn whispered for at least the fourth time; Byleth had stopped counting. The two were concealed in the vessels’ side passage, peeking around a corner at the assembled nobles. Each time a new one walked in, Flayn would point excitedly and ask if _this_ was Felix’s father.

“No,” Byleth repeated flatly. She looked over the man Flayn had indicated. “That’s Margrave Gautier. I told you; I’ll let you know when I see him.”

Flayn sighed and languished against the wall. “I must admit that this clandestine operation seemed much more thrilling in my head,” she lamented, letting her head fall to the side. But as soon as another person walked in, she revitalized at once. “Ah! Is _that_ him?”

“No-” Byleth said out of habit, but then actually checked. “Oh- yes,” she corrected, watching as Lord Rodrigue made his way calmly across the library floor. He joined Margrave Gautier in front of a horizontal inked scroll of Saint Seiros, teal cape fluttering behind him. “That’s Duke Fraldarius.”

Flayn leaned out as far as she could while remaining hidden, voicing her approval through a series of appreciative coos. “He is quite a bit more regal than the Lord Regent, would you not agree?” She asked, glancing back with an impish smile. “Does your Felix also look so gallant?”

A snappy response caught in Byleth’s throat; she thought of Felix standing over her, sword in hand, poised like a predator and backlit by fire. “No, he’s...fiercer,” she said, swallowing hard.

Flayn turned, mouth half-open and no doubt ready to tease, but then her eyes widened and she ducked with a stilted yelp, hiding her face with her hands. Byleth moved in time to block her from sight, whirling to confront whomever trespassed in this private space.

“Your Grace,” Dimitri said with clipped surprise, drawing himself back at her protective posture. “Please excuse us if we’ve disturbed you.”

Sylvain popped out from behind him, beaming. “Good afternoon, Lady Byleth!” His head cocked curiously to the side, neck straining to see the person she was concealing. “Is that the young Lady Flayn, perhaps?”

Widening her stance to better shield Flayn, Byleth had to fight to keep her voice properly serene. “Your Highness. Lord Sylvain,” she greeted them, inclining her head to each. “As Sister Flayn has not yet gone through her Induction, I must ask you to _avert your eyes_.”

The two men obeyed instantly, Dimitri with an awkward grimace and Sylvain with a coy laugh. 

“We meant no offense-” Dimitri began.

“Additionally, this corridor is for the exclusive use of divine vessels. Please leave at once,” Byleth stated, her gentle-but-firm tone allowing no room for argument. Really, she could care less who used what hallway in the monastery - but Flayn was deeply faithful, and Byleth would allow no one to infringe on her modesty.

“I _knew_ there was a reason those servants were looking at us like that,” Sylvain muttered, staring at the ceiling as he backed up.

Evidently he wasn’t moving fast enough, because Dimitri grabbed him by the arm and dragged him bodily away at a quicker pace. “I will make this up to you, Your Grace,” he called back, disappearing from view with a strikingly unbothered Sylvain.

In his haste, he’d forgotten to control his volume; Byleth flinched at the questioning murmurs that drifted in from the library. She’d probably have to explain this to Seteth later.

“Goodness, you sounded just like Rhea,” Flayn said quietly, only straightening up when their untimely visitors’ footsteps had faded. “Thank you. But how did they get in here?”

It didn’t take much for Byleth to imagine a young novitiate, too terrified to deny passage to the Kingdom’s next monarch. “That was Prince Dimitri,” she said, rolling her eyes and choosing to ignore her friend’s other remark. “I don’t think he’d have trouble getting anywhere.”

Flayn covered her mouth with her hand, looking in the direction he’d fled as if she might still catch a glimpse of blonde hair or a fur-trimmed cloak. “You are certainly correct about that,” she said.

Picking up on her wistful tone, Byleth bent to fill Flayn’s field of vision, grinning wickedly and clasping her hands behind her back. “Oh, am I?”

“ _Byleth_ ,” Flayn objected, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks. The two vessels made their way arm-in-arm down the hallway, which quickly filled with soft laughter and protestations.

\---

She’d last ridden a horse at age nine, dark hair messy and loose, a half-eaten apple clutched in her teeth as she followed Jeralt to the archery range. It had been so natural to her, then: the feel of balancing on a creature’s back, the easy sway of its movements, the rhythm of its measured gait.

But that same rhythm now sickened her, her thighs chafing against the leather saddle, and she mourned the loss of those skills her father had taught her so meticulously.

“Are you feeling uncomfortable, Your Grace?” Ingrid asked, golden hair flashing in the sunlight as she turned her head. “Should we take a break?”

Byleth gripped her saddlehorn with firm resolve. “No. We have only one day of practice, after all.” And it would be absolutely unacceptable to show Jeralt the current, sorry state of her riding prowess. She at least remembered enough to guide her gentle mare in different directions - even if Ingrid still held the lead, to be safe - and switch between a walk, trot, and canter, but no amount of knowledge could spare her from the physical discomfort of retraining.

Ingrid smiled her approval, steering her own mount down a sloping trail. “That’s right,” she said, adding lightly, “I still can’t believe the Captain isn’t using a carriage. He’ll take one look at your dress and sit you side-saddle on his own horse, I bet.”

Laughing, Byleth looked down at her riding outfit - a shorter style of belted robe worn atop thick linen pants, commonly used for labor in the monastery - and doubted that Mercedes would permit her to wear such a thing to the party.

“Luckily, knights are permitted to dress for practicality,” Ingrid continued, shaking her head. “If I had to stumble around in a gown for hours- ugh.”

Forgetting herself momentarily, Byleth commiserated with a dry, “I know, right?”

Ingrid glanced to the side, mouth quirking upward at the relaxed vernacular, but made no comment. “You know- last week, the Captain was constantly reprimanding us for discussing this party, but ever since you invited him, it’s all he can talk about.” She slowed their progress to carefully lead both horses over a rocky patch of ground. “You really brightened his mood, Your Grace.”

A wide smile broke out on Byleth’s face; she pulled down the wide brim of her flat sunhat to conceal it. 

“Actually - could you clear something up for me?” Ingrid asked, adjusting her pace so that the two of them rode side-by-side. “When you stopped by the training hall, did Felix say anything to you?”

Byleth’s blood ran cold. She was glad her face was already hidden, or else her shock would have surely given everything away. “Yes, we...talked,” she said evenly.

“I thought so,” Ingrid said, brows knitting together. “There was no way he’d offer to be your combat instructor out of the blue - and no way Lord Seteth would ask it of him unprompted.”

To avoid saying anything suspicious, Byleth simply hummed in agreement.

“So I figured you two must’ve gotten acquainted at some point,” she went on, seeming satisfied to have solved the riddle. “I’m glad for it, honestly. He’ll teach you well. And this will be the first gathering he’s willingly attended in years - obviously you made a good impression on him.”

Given everything she’d learned about him so far, Byleth couldn’t say she was surprised that he avoided social functions. Making a connection between him and the party, though, brought out a new worry, and she asked, “Does every guest have a partner at these events?”

“Not always, but going alone paints a target on your back for many, many dance invitations,” Ingrid said direly. “That’s why Felix and I have gone together since-” she faltered, but quickly recovered “-for many years now. Neither of us pressures the other to dance.” She smiled conspiratorially at this, tilting her head in Byleth’s direction. “I _would_ say that you and the Captain could come to a similar arrangement, but he’s been diligently practicing his line-step when he thinks no one’s watching.”

Byleth chuckled, not only in relief at Felix’s choice of partner, but at the thought of Jeralt doing anything so delicate. “Lady Martritz will be teaching me that one, as well,” she said, and found herself much less apprehensive of the idea than before.

\---

She woke Wednesday morning saddle-sore but confident in her progress, optimistic that she could handle whatever tasks Rhea threw at her. As far as Byleth was concerned, Wednesdays would be the price of everything else, a toll to pay in order to have some semblance of a normal life. She was determined to pay it well and fully.

A few duties she already knew about; it was the Archbishop’s - or Bishop’s, in the cases of other temples - job to hear the confessions of the higher clergy, just as the senior priests heard the confessions of their juniors, and the juniors heard those of laymen. Rhea also prepared the temple’s holy water and provided oration for First Devotion, though she and Seteth shared that responsibility.

Beyond that, though, Byleth couldn’t guess. Maybe some paperwork? Meetings? There had to be some reason that Rhea spent most of her day locked in the administrative wing of the academic tower - and it was likely bureaucratic in nature.

Rhea herself came to pick her up that morning, arriving before even breakfast.

“With oracles, it is better to postpone eating until after the magic is wrought,” she explained. “Sometimes they require quite a bit of blood.” 

To this, Byleth nodded obediently; she’d already learned that particular lesson.

The two passed several acolytes and a highly curious Flayn on their way down the tower, all of whom received the same formal, silent greetings. 

“We begin the day by granting an oracle to the Lord Regent,” Rhea said when they’d reached the packed earth path that connected the various buildings. As the sun hadn’t quite crested Garreg Mach’s hill, their walk was brisk and shrouded. 

“This is an ancient, sacred rite, and so we must oblige him. No matter what he asks,” she added sternly. “It is not our place to question; though the faces change, it is the Archbishop’s duty to serve the line of Loog.”

Byleth looked up confusedly; first Seteth, and now Rhea, had indicated something derogatory about Lord Rufus.

“You will see,” Rhea said, noting her pupil’s expression. “But say nothing.”

The room they entered was one Byleth had never seen before. Though it was situated in the administrative tower, it looked like a tiny slice of the temple’s atrium; there was a raised dais for oration, a wooden basin for holy water, and even a few shortened pews. Behind the dais was a tall, carved door similar to the one that guarded the ritual vault, but instead of the Four Saints, this one depicted only Saint Seiros and the Goddess. Both were in their natural forms, spreading their wings protectively over a smaller representation of the Kingdom.

Looking upon the scene stirred something deep within her, flashes of lives that were not her own; and, like flecks of snow drifting from a laden roof, there were multitudes beyond. She reached up to touch one of Sothis’s glittering silver scales, but Rhea stopped her with a gentle hand.

“Not now, my dear one,” she said quietly, kneeling upon a finely woven cushion on the dais and gesturing to its twin beside her. 

After one last, lingering look at the carving, Byleth obeyed. Once she was settled, she noticed that not one, but two extra cushions were placed opposite theirs - but before she could ask after it, the chamber door opened.

“Archbishop Rhea,” Lord Rufus said with a sweeping bow, striding across the room and taking a casual seat across from Rhea. “And Lady Byleth. A blessed morning to you both.”

A chagrined Dimitri followed him in, performing a proper Church salute to both vessels before kneeling formally on his own cushion. “Your Eminence. Your Grace,” he murmured.

Byleth returned the salute, glancing over to Rhea, who wore a peaceful, pleased smile. It seemed that more had been orchestrated than the Archbishop had deigned to inform her protege, a thought that set her teeth on edge. She was careful to keep the annoyance off of her face, though, as she pulled down her hood and veil.

“A blessed First Devotion, Lord Regent, Your Highness,” Rhea said. “What answers may we provide?”

 _We_? Again Byleth’s eyes strayed questioningly upward, but no explanation came.

Lord Rufus sighed dramatically, lounging to the side. “A beautiful songstress from Enbarr will be performing at the Midwinter Ball. I have been in _anguish_ over this woman’s affections, but then I realized: I can just ask the Goddess!”

Byleth felt that she now understood Rhea’s and Seteth’s comments, stuck between amusement and revulsion for this man who had previously - before opening his mouth - given off such a stoic air. 

Across from her, Dimitri seemed to be having a rougher time with subtlety; his one good eye was tight and twitching, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Tell me, Archbishop, how might I persuade her to look my way?” Lord Rufus entreated, ignorant to the dampening effect he’d had on the room.

If Rhea harbored any disdain for his chosen use of holy magic, she kept it well-hidden, merely extending her arm palm-up and spiking her wrist. A rivulet of blood flowed out of the tiny wound, splashing in drops to the wooden floor between the cushions. They massed together, then spiralled outward in a coursing pattern, eventually ending in two adjacent symbols: a wilting oleander flower and Saint Cichol’s family crest.

The skin on Rhea’s wrist closed over and she gracefully re-folded her arm in her lap, looking over the blood sign and nodding to herself. “It seems as though this young lady values actions over words,” she said. “You would do well to show her your sincerity, rather than to speak it.”

Byleth was no expert in oracle analysis, but she was pretty sure that oleander flowers signified caution, not action - and the presence of Saint Cichol’s symbol usually implied tenacity or perseverance. That aside, though, Rhea’s advice seemed sound. This fool should remain silent when talking to _anyone_ , let alone someone he wanted to impress.

Lord Rufus slapped his thigh and laughed aloud. “Of course! A sought-after beauty like that must be constantly surrounded by empty promises. Your magic never fails, Lady Rhea.”

Rhea inclined her head as the blood sign dissolved, then turned her attention to Dimitri. “And you, Your Highness? Have you anything to ask of the Goddess?” Inexplicably, she motioned to Byleth while saying this; by the time Byleth realized what was happening, it was too late to object. She could merely stare across the gap and try to keep her inner horror from showing.

“Ah- um,” Dimitri stammered, clearly not expecting to be called upon. “The roads,” he said, as if he were grasping at the first topic that came to mind.

“The roads?” Byleth asked blankly, augur spike paused above her outstretched wrist.

Clearing his throat, Dimitri asked more assuredly than before, “Should a bigger portion of next year’s infrastructure budget be applied to the royal road system?” After a moment of silence, he laughed nervously. “Though, perhaps the Goddess is not concerned with such things.”

Byleth couldn’t help a tiny, shuddering laugh at his question - it was odd, to be sure, but far more in line with her expectations. Dimitri relaxed, too, at her reaction, and even offered her a timid smile.

She pricked her wrist and watched her blood trickle and pool on the floor. This time it formed into a collection of three feathers, each of a different shape. The first, distinctly long and thin, she recognized immediately as a rooster’s tail feather; the second, banded and ovular, came from an owl. The third, tapered, completely filled in with blood, and taking up the most prominent place in the array, was a crow’s pinion. She looked to her side for guidance, but Rhea simply shook her head.

“What does your instinct tell you?” Rhea prompted softly.

Looking over the three feathers again, Byleth noticed something new; the crow’s pointed slightly to the east, while the others were tilted to the west. 

“This choice is both wise and auspicious,” she began haltingly, indicating the side feathers. Her voice grew steadily stronger as she spoke. “It will bring you twofold benefit over misfortune, but there will be misfortune.” She tapped the middle feather. “A cost of some sort.”

The blood sign evaporated with a faint hiss, and Lord Rufus nodded knowingly.

“I see. Unavoidable, really, with large-scale construction,” he said, slapping Dimitri heartily on the back. “Well, boy, it seems the Goddess agrees with your fiscal ideas!” 

He got to his feet and stretched, rubbing his neck. “I swear, it gets harder to sit like that every week. Thank you for the portents, as always.”

Rhea stood in one smooth, fluid motion, painting the Regent in an even clumsier light by comparison. “Of course. Have a pleasant ride back to the city.”

Dimitri once again saluted the both of them, stiffly, eye periodically wandering back to the space on the floor where the blood signs had formed. “Thank you. Both of you,” he said, and looked as though he wanted to continue, but Lord Rufus hurried him out the door.

\---

Later, eyes bleary from reading through the Prophecies of Seiros for an oration passage and jaw aching from reciting said passage to the evening congregation, it struck Byleth that Rhea had never provided any opinion on her oracle analysis.

Well, she reasoned, Rhea _was_ trying to prepare her to be Archbishop. One she held that office, no one would be there to reassure her ideas or correct her mistakes. The thought was sobering; what if she read a sign wrong? The Goddess was never faulty in her messages, but Her servants could certainly interpret them incorrectly.

Three feathers: a rooster, an owl, and a crow. Two positive and one negative; two pointing West, one pointing East. A major benefit with a minor cost.

But had she made an error in her judgement?

Rolling around in her bed, Byleth wracked her mind for answers beyond the one she’d come to earlier, but only succeeded in burning herself out before sleep finally took her.

\---

“And then we turn around our partner, faced toward them, and switch places in the line - oh, Annie, that is _not_ how the dance goes,” Mercedes insisted, pausing her instruction once again. “Partners don’t touch during the line-step, and they certainly don’t twirl after a turn!”

Annette giggled behind her hand, red hair shining in the afternoon sun that poured through Byleth’s living room windows. “Sorry, sorry. This dance is just so boring without a little flair.” 

“I liked it,” Byleth commented, imitating the twirl and enjoying the way it made the hem of her new dress swish around her ankles. The damn thing was growing on her; at first, the long-sleeved gown of navy-and-gold silk was like a prison, cutting off her airflow and squeezing her waist, but the longer she spent wearing it, the more elegant she felt - even if that elegance was not yet reflected in her dancing.

“See? Her Grace likes it,” Annette teased.

Mercedes smiled, relenting, “Oh, all right. We might have time for _some_ improvisation - but only after we get the basics down. We have only three days, if you’ll recall.” She took up a starting position again, waiting for Byleth and Annette to do the same. “Now- follow me.”

\---

By Saturday morning, Byleth was well and truly exhausted. She’d been dragged around on horseback, through a religious gauntlet, across Fhirdiad in search of the perfect dress, and along her living room floor in pursuit of competent footwork - and that wasn’t even counting her two study days with Seteth, in which he’d insisted she memorize the names and titles of the party’s entire guest list.

“I don’t know if I can do this every week,” she complained to her dining table, head resting on its surface.

Flayn laughed fondly. “Oh, it will get easier. Besides, it was only in service of the party, correct? Look on the bright side,” she said, smoothing her hands down the front of Byleth’s gown where it hung from one of the window frames. “You will look absolutely lovely in this.”

She came back to the dining table and sat, pulling a plate toward herself. “And if Felix asks you to dance, you _must_ let me wear it.”

Byleth raised her head, grinning through the fatigue. “Deal.”

\---

The two-horse carriage that came to pick her up was a similar lacquered black to the one from Founding Day, but this time painted with the crest of Fraldarius instead of Blaiddyd. Since she wore the same loose, lightweight attire from her riding lesson, Byleth hopped in easily, requiring no aid from the footman that stepped up to assist her.

She slid onto the empty bench inside, greeting Felix in a taunting tone, “So what are these ones called, then? Ingrid and Sylvain?”

When no immediate reply came - not so much as an insulted scoff - Byleth looked up to find not Felix, but Rodrigue on the bench opposite her.

“Good morning, Lady Byleth,” he said with barely restrained mirth. “You were expecting my son, I presume?”

The easy smile died on her lips. “Oh- I-” she stuttered, struggling to assume the guise of the Holy Maiden on such short notice, “-I apologize, Lord Fraldarius-”

“Please, be calm,” Rodrigue encouraged, offering her a travel blanket that she gripped like a lifeline. “I’m pleased that you and Felix can speak so informally; there’s no need to be embarrassed.”

 _Easy for you to say_ , Byleth groaned internally - that was the rudest she’d ever been to a non-vessel. If Seteth ever found out about it, that would be the end of her. She pulled the blanket up to cover her face, trying to regulate her breathing.

“Really, Your Grace,” he said, chuckling good-naturedly. “You were speaking of the, ah, curious name of his horse, correct?”

The carriage started moving and a contingent of mounted knights formed up around it. Byleth lowered the blanket enough to peek over it, finding not a grim authority figure, but a kindly smiling older man.

“I was,” she said tentatively. “He told me the story, um- the other day.”

Rodrigue nodded, eyes growing distant and pensive. “Yes, that was a tough time. It was only a few years after the Tragedy, and both my son and the prince were still raw from the losses - we all were. Oh, you aren’t familiar?” He asked at Byleth’s confused stare.

She pursed her lips. Her memories of that time consisted only of a vague awareness that the King had died, and nothing more. “Not very, no. It happened right before- right before I ascended.” _Right before they took me_ , she almost said, but then remembered to use the proper term.

“I see,” he said, leaning back on the bench. “Eleven years ago, King Lambert visited Duscur to spread goodwill between our peoples, but while he was there, he was assassinated by a group of rebels. Him, his wife, and his entire royal guard - including my eldest son, Glenn, lost their lives that day. Prince Dimitri was the only survivor.”

Byleth deflated where she sat, trying to comprehend the enormity of losing a sibling so young - of losing both parents so young. Her hands trembled in her lap and she pressed them together to keep still.

Rodrigue heaved a sigh, shaking his head as if to clear it. “But I didn’t intend to drag down the mood; I only meant to say that I understand why my son was rebellious during that time. Ah- _more_ rebellious,” he corrected with a wan smile. “I remember the day of his knighting well. Your father was the master of ceremonies.”

She looked up, shocked out of her melancholy. “He was?”

“Oh, yes,” Rodrigue said. “Felix would never have accepted it from me.”

The two chatted amicably - more naturally than Byleth would have thought possible with a lord - until the carriage reached the front of a massive estate. They slowly came to a stop, wheels crunching over drive gravel instead of the paved stone streets of Fhirdiad. 

Byleth re-secured her cloak’s hood and detached veil, folding her travel blanket and setting it gingerly next to her on the bench. “Thank you for escorting me, Lord Fraldarius,” she said, genuinely glad to provide the courtesy.

“Not at all. I wished to confirm the soundness of your travel route myself; in the future, I will be sure to send Felix, and you two may discuss horse naming conventions at length,” Rodrigue said with the barest hint of sarcasm - a refined mirror of the attitude he’d passed on to his son - and climbed down from the carriage, turning to offer her a hand down.

Unbalanced by the sudden joke, she took it, forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to physically touch laymen; by the time she remembered, he had already walked off with their carriage driver toward the stables.

“Good day, Your Grace,” he called back over his shoulder. “Please make yourself at home!”

Byleth narrowed her eyes, getting a familiar sense of incredulity at their interaction, but nevertheless proceeded to enter the open front doors of the estate; the Holy Maiden could not, after all, be seen chasing down noblemen while protesting. 

The inside of the manor was both more and less decorated than she had expected; judging by the personalities of its master and heir, she’d thought to see a sparse, utilitarian design, but the furnishings looked complementary and intentionally styled - at least, at first glance. As she moved closer to inspect a tapestry, she saw that its edges had long begun to fray; the couches and armchairs, so carefully matched, were all covered in a thin layer of dust. It was as if the hand that had lovingly positioned these things was long-absent, and those that remained cared neither to use nor replace them.

Byleth moved from the front room to a long corridor with many open doors on each side. She wandered from doorway to doorway, finding no sign of Felix, but also no traces of any servants; perhaps, true to his word, he’d sent them away to ensure privacy.

One doorway in particular gave her pause. Among several nondescript bedrooms, this one carried some semblance of life, having rugs on the floor and a recently-raked hearth. She poked her head in, keeping her feet on the polite side of the threshold, but saw no one inside.

What she _did_ see, though, prompted her to disregard etiquette and enter; on the far wall, in an open wardrobe next to a barely-made bed, hung a gray cloak and an ivory scarf, both pristine and ironed. They were placed in their own, empty section of the wardrobe, facing outward and easily visible from everywhere else in the room.

Byleth approached, telling herself that she just wanted to have a quick look, and then she would leave with none the wiser of her intrusion. She felt along the soft weave of the scarf and the rougher cotton of the cloak, confirming that they were hers and that this was indeed Felix’s room - and then, when she spied his heavy teal coat hanging in the other side of the wardrobe, all pretense of a short visitation went out the window.

She pushed aside the garments that surrounded it, sparing a moment to feel the sleeve of a padded white undershirt before running her fingers over the coat’s silver buckles. Between its detached cape, leather pauldron, and front closures, Byleth was fairly certain that its system of clasps was at least as complex as the whalebone corset Mercedes had stuffed her into last Thursday.

“Do you often rifle through gentlemens’ bedrooms?” Felix’s smug, lilting voice asked from somewhere behind her, an echo of her challenge from the Knights’ Hall.

Byleth flinched, dropped the coat, and turned on her heel; Felix stood in the doorway, leaning against it with his arms crossed. His hair was styled more casually, pulled back in a simple tie, and he wore only the bottom layer of his usual outfit: a long-sleeved black undershirt, leggings, and boots. 

“ _No_. And a proper gentleman wouldn’t spy on a guest,” she quipped defensively, taking a step away from the wardrobe to distance herself from her actions.

He pushed off the doorframe and motioned for her to follow; she did. “A proper guest wouldn’t trespass in their host’s private chambers,” he threw back, waiting for her to catch up before starting off down the hall.

She looked up, trying to maintain her irritation, but the amusement on his face inspired a grin on her own; they turned away from each other, laughing softly.

“I suppose we’ll both have to settle for impropriety,” she said. “How long were you watching me, anyway?”

Felix led them through a set of double doors into the estate’s training hall, then locked the doors behind them. “A while,” he evaded. “I thought you might try on my coat.”

Byleth scoffed at the idea as if it hadn’t been running through her mind only moments before he’d interrupted her. “That would be quite rude indeed,” she muttered, trailing him guiltily to the weapon rack. 

This room was smaller than the one used by the royal knights, but no less well-equipped. The center opened up into a courtyard, complete with an area of rocks and trees - perhaps to simulate various terrain in battle.

She hung her cloak on an empty part of the rack, but Felix shook his head when she reached for a practice sword.

“Warm-up first,” he said.

After leading her in a light jog around the outside of the hall for ten laps and teaching her a set of simple stretches, he nodded approvingly and tossed her a wooden blade. “Okay. Come at me.”

Byleth caught it, joining him in the flattened, central part of the room. “That’s it?” She asked, unsure. “No instruction?”

“Experience is the best teacher. Come on,” he urged, assuming a limber stance.

She grit her teeth and obliged him, sprinting across the open ground and bringing her sword up in a vertical sweep. It met his with a loud wooden crack; he grinned, eyes focused and intense.

“Good,” he said, shoving her off. He pressed her with the same barrage of quick strikes from the lake, but she’d seen this many times, now, and wouldn’t fall to it so easily. 

Byleth stepped backward, covering her retreat with a wide arc, and then hopped to the side, hoping to catch him from an odd angle. Felix twisted mid-lunge like a cat, and with all of its grace, turned her blade to the side and sent her reeling off-balance.

He followed up with a swipe across her midsection, aiming to wind her; operating on instinct, Byleth thrust out her palm and summoned her power, forcing him to dodge a jet of white flame.

She froze instantly, flexing her fingers. “Was that...okay?”

Felix pulled back for a moment, eyes bright with exhilaration. “Of _course_. Use everything you have,” he said excitedly, curling his off hand into a fist. “And so will I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ingrid the next day: you pUNCHED THE HOLY MAIDEN


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, just kidding, the party needs two chapters (sorry - it got away from me).

\---Part 1: Felix---

It was an unspoken rule of the nobility that no one arrived at a social event exactly when it started. Felix didn’t get it - had never gotten it - but for some reason, it was the height of fashion to waste ten to thirty minutes of everyone’s time, every time. Some guests would even go so far as to direct their carriages around the block until a certain number of people had entered the venue, which to his eyes did nothing but needlessly clog the estate district’s roads.

But tonight was different. It was the Holy Maiden’s first social outing, and everyone who wanted to curry favor with the Church was already packed inside the Gautier manor’s grand hall, stealing ill-concealed looks at the doors. Whenever they opened, the conversation in the room died down and all eyes turned to the newly admitted attendee; but when the person turned out to be just a familiar socialite, the crowd heaved a collective sigh and resumed its shallow facade of chatter until the next arrival.

“Disgusting,” Felix said as he watched them perform yet another round of this farce.

The back wall of the Gautiers’ grand hall was made entirely of glass panes that swiveled to the side, creating a seamless transition between the hall and a massive, garden-facing balcony. He, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Dimitri were perched by the inner railing of this balcony, giving them an advantageous view of the entire room.

“They’re like dogs waiting for their dinner,” he spat, draping his arms over the marble banister. “So eager to push their selfish agendas onto the guest of honor.”

Behind him, Sylvain snorted. “Yeah? Think they’ll punch her, too?”

Felix’s righteous anger faltered for a moment and he half-turned to splutter at his accuser, “I told you- we were _training_ -”

“Ah, don’t move,” Sylvain interrupted, using both hands to hold his friend in place. “I’m almost done.”

Though disgruntled, Felix complied, digging his fingernails into his palms as Sylvain pinned various medals and embroidered badges - representing knightly accolades - onto his black half-cape.

“What _were_ you thinking, though? Striking the Holy Maiden in the face, and the day before a party, no less?” Ingrid asked, her voice tight and controlled to account for the setting, but with a simmering undertone that promised future revisits. 

This time, Felix _did_ turn - just in time for Sylvain to affix the last badge and step back. “The entire point of combat training is to _train for combat_ ,” he emphasized. “People get punched in battle. It happens.”

“She’s not ‘people,’ Felix, she’s the Goddess,” Ingrid said, bringing one hand to her forehead. Felix’s hackles raised at that old distinction; he took a deep breath, gearing up to attack.

Dimitri hastened to position himself between his two friends, flashing a diplomatic smile. “I think it’s commendable that Her Grace is learning to fight, despite her position,” he said to Ingrid, and then tilted his head toward Felix. “Perhaps you could leave fewer bruises on our Holy Maiden, though?”

Felix squinted at the prince’s choice of words. _It doesn’t even matter_ , he wanted to shout, _she just heals them!_ But then it dawned on him that they had probably never seen Bel’s magic. Maybe they didn’t even know about it. 

The thought left him feeling rather satisfied, and he relaxed against the railing instead of picking a fight.

When the massive hall doors opened again, he resisted the urge to whip his head around like the rest of the guests, keeping his sight diligently trained on the back gardens’ dim landscape. But then the room went quiet - quieter even than the bated, momentary lapses from before - and Felix allowed himself to shift in increments until one eye could make out the newest arrival.

“Lady Byleth, Ninth Divine Vessel of the Goddess Sothis,” called the herald. “And escorting her: Knight-Captain Jeralt Eisner.”

In the space of one hitched breath, his world came to a stop. 

\---Part 2: Byleth---

Exactly as Ingrid had predicted, Jeralt took in Byleth’s dress with a chagrined frown and helped her up onto his own horse, rather than making her sit awkwardly on a separate one. 

“Ah, damn it. I’m sorry, Bel,” he said, positioning the reins on either side of her and making sure she was secure in the saddle. “I hope this isn’t too uncomfortable.”

She shook her head, secretly glad to be free of the responsibility of controlling her own mount; while Ingrid had declared her skills passable, Byleth still feared she would only embarrass herself in front of her father.

“It’s fine,” she reassured him, finding her perch stable even when they started moving. “It reminds me of when I was little,” she continued with a wistful smile, recalling night trips spent lazing like this against him, long before she was old enough to ride on her own.

Jeralt laughed, a deep, full sound that resonated in her chest. “You remember that, huh? I used to take the Eastroad for miles to get you to sleep. Stories, songs - nothing else settled you like a ride.” His nostalgic tone drifted off and for a few minutes they traveled in silence, accompanied only by evening birdsong and the clop of cantering hooves.

Byleth wasn’t sure if he felt it, too, but it was like she was being crushed underneath all the time they had missed together; what should she talk about? What would he want to hear? She cast about for topics, finding all of them inadequate.

“Are they taking care of you?” Jeralt asked after a while, lowering his voice even though they were the only two people on the road for miles. “The Church, I mean. Do you like it there?”

Her mouth twisted up into a skewed smile; he couldn’t have picked a more complicated question. “They’re taking care of me,” she said slowly, the most honest answer she could muster.

He grunted, tightening his grip on the reins. “This is probably heresy, but-” he sighed, shifting back in the saddle, “-after you changed, I thought about running.”

Byleth looked up sharply; Jeralt chuckled.

“I know. It was a wild impulse. I had all these plans - most of them involved mercenary work - but in the end, they were all about hiding you away. It was no way to raise a child, I decided,” he said, grimacing. “But then the Church went and did exactly that.”

He exhaled. “I still wonder if I made the right choice.”

The distant lights of Fhirdiad grew ever closer along the western road; suddenly, where before she’d been eager for their brightness, she found herself wishing for an extension on this private, nostalgic atmosphere.

“You did the best you could,” Byleth said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. Somehow it calmed her, knowing that this man whom she viewed as a paragon of competence also had moments of doubt and regret.

His answering smile was tired but genuine. “I did. So, tell me truthfully: do you like it there?”

She hesitated, thinking of her long decade of isolation, of rigorous study and judgment, overseen at a cold distance by Rhea and Seteth with only Flayn and the forest lake as a balm. But then Seteth’s stern eyes softened; Flayn held her close, whispering far-fetched dreams of the future; she twirled around her room in graceless circles with Mercedes and Annette. Beside a roaring fire, Felix offered his hand to help her up after a bout of sparring.

“Yes,” she said, and meant it. 

Jeralt searched her face, then dipped his chin in satisfaction. “Good,” he said, looking to the countryside surrounding Fhirdiad. “If you’d said ‘no,’ I would’ve taken us away right now. We’d have ridden off into the dark- cut our hair and lived as outlaws. Don’t laugh,” he admonished, even though he was grinning, himself. 

\---

The Gautier estate’s front street was choked with carriages of all colors and sizes, and emblazoned with the crests of dozens of families, when they arrived. Luckily, a single horse could easily weave between the vehicles and make it to the courtyard stable - and this was expedited when the footmen recognized its riders.

They were led to a dressing room off the main path to the grand hall, where Mercedes waited with a smile and a comb.

“Your Grace, Captain,” she greeted them with a shallow bow, then unhooked Byleth’s veil and took to fixing her hair at once. “I just knew this would happen. Give me one moment.” She artfully rearranged the elaborate style, making sure a few locks fell to accentuate the gown’s modest square neckline. 

“Sorry about that,” Jeralt said, adjusting his own semi-formal attire. When Ingrid had said that knights were allowed to dress practically, she really wasn’t kidding; if not for the absence of his bulkier pieces of armor - chestplate, pauldrons and tassets - Byleth could have believed that her father intended to go into battle.

“Don’t worry. I came prepared,” Mercedes said, walking a circle around her charge for inspection and adding, “Oh, Lady Rhea signed a temporary dispensation allowing the servants to view you tonight - so you don’t need to wear your veil.”

Byleth blinked, setting the garment aside instead of re-tying it. “If- if Rhea can just sign a piece of paper, what was the point of the Induction?” She asked more bluntly than was appropriate; beside them, Jeralt coughed roughly to hide a laugh.

“Don’t let Lord Seteth hear you saying that,” Mercedes warned, but there was a smile in her voice. She stepped back, hands on her hips, and said, “There. Perfect again. You two are ready to go; I’ve already been introduced, so I’ll see you inside.”

Jeralt stuck out his elbow and Byleth clung onto it, grounded by the sturdy bulk of his arm and the cold metal of his gauntlets. The reality of the next few minutes washed over her in waves, each leaving her more unsettled than the last; hundreds of eyes - hundreds of names - hundreds of introductions.

“Nervous?” Jeralt asked, leading her toward the grand hall. She looked up helplessly. “Yeah, the first time’s the worst. But I’m with you.”

She flashed him a wobbly smile as they reached a massive set of double doors. Two well-dressed servants pulled them open, and beyond was a cavernous hall, taller than even the main temple’s atrium and as richly decorated as Castle Blaiddyd’s stateroom. 

There were raised balconies at the front and back of the hall that framed a wide, flat central square, and beyond the floor space was a wall made entirely of glass that looked upon a sprawling garden. Byleth couldn’t appreciate it, though, because between herself and that beautiful view swam a sea of painted faces.

Just inside, a gentleman bearing a scroll cleared his throat and announced in a clear, musical voice, “Lady Byleth, Ninth Divine Vessel of the Goddess Sothis. And escorting her: Knight-Captain Jeralt Eisner.”

Every head in the room jerked toward her, every eye bearing directly into her soul. She shrunk under their scrutiny, leaning into Jeralt as if they might disappear if she broke line of sight. But there was no such luck to be found; they crunched in closer by the moment, and she knew it was too late to turn back.

She skimmed over the crowd, looking for a sanctuary in the chaos, and then lighted upon him - high on the back balcony, a glimpse of steady fire-gold made her sigh audibly in relief. But there was no route to that pocket of safety; nobles packed the floor between them.

Felix followed her gaze and, seeming to understand her plight, nodded curtly. _Wait there_ , his expression said wordlessly, and he disappeared into the crowd.

\---Part 3: Ingrid---

Dimitri, Felix, and Sylvain had been raised together practically since birth. Ingrid herself had come in a bit later, after becoming engaged to Felix’s older brother from a young age, but the four of them were inseparable after that. They’d been through so much together - childhood, squirehood, the Tragedy, and then knighthood - and while their friendship had indeed been rocky for a few years, they’d come out all the closer for it.

Which was why, despite his efforts to hide it from her, Ingrid could see a change in Felix. Ever since returning from the conflict at the Galatea border, he’d been...different. At first, she’d thought he must have met with some sort of trauma on his journey - something that might take him a while to divulge. But then he started participating in society to a frankly suspicious degree, and she could find only one common thread amongst the events.

“Sylvain,” she said, watching Felix as he stood immobilized some distance down the banister, focused solely on the Holy Maiden. “We have a problem.”

“Oh, I see it,” Sylvain commented beside her with a snicker, feigning a bereaved tone. “They just grow up so fast.”

Ingrid shot him an unamused glance, but then noticed that he was faced the other direction. “No- over here.”

“Hm?” Sylvain turned his head, spotting Felix for the first time and tracing the path of his eyes. “Oh. _Oh_ . Ingrid, we have _two_ problems,” he said ominously, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Ingrid leaned around him, finding Dimitri a short distance away, leaning on the railing and gazing upon the Holy Maiden with a soft reverence that, despite its innocence, dropped a stone directly into her gut.

“Oh,” she echoed, returning to her original position and drumming her fingers on the banister.

Sylvain exhaled heavily. “Yeah.” He looked past her, half-smirking as he continued, “And it looks like Problem One is on the move.”

\---Part 4: Byleth---

“Your Grace, it is so wonderful to have you here,” a tall, red-haired man - _Margrave Gautier_ , her brain supplied on a delay - said, saluting her. “Welcome to my home. Knight-Captain Eisner, it is always a pleasure.”

Byleth opened her mouth to say something empty and polite in response, but another man stepped up beside the margrave.

“Lady Byleth, I am Count Charon,” he said, long blonde hair falling around his face as he bowed low. “I hope you will honor me with your conversation this evening.”

Again, she made to answer, but a willowy woman with a voluminous fur collar joined the first two speakers. “My, so you’re the Goddess’s vessel this time,” she said, raking narrow eyes over Byleth’s frame. “How interesting. Cornelia Arnim, royal physician.”

Inundated with noise, Byleth barely had time to process any of it, shifting her focus between the three - and more that were approaching - and already forgetting who’d said what. Jeralt, unused to these sorts of events, looked similarly overwhelmed, practically frozen in place.

A rude cough silenced the chatter as the gathered nobles searched, scandalized, for its source. Felix parted the crowd with little ceremony, shooting dark glares at anyone who challenged him, verbally or otherwise.

“Come on,” he said, motioning for Jeralt and Byleth to follow. As the immediate guests began to protest, he spoke over them icily, “Shut up. You’re bothering her.”

Byleth didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and so she kept her face blank and trailed after him, dragging a stunned Jeralt along with her. She’d probably have to apologize to those three, and potentially many more, at some point, but for now she could feel only gratitude.

Felix glanced back to ensure she was there, eyes flicking down to his cape when he noticed her lagging behind. She grabbed onto it with her free hand and was rewarded with the barest hint of a smile before he turned to the front.

“Good thinking, Fraldarius,” her father rasped, oblivious to their subtle exchange. “I just can’t handle those aristocratic types. No offense.”

“None taken, old man,” Felix deadpanned.

Jeralt chuckled, then gently squeezed Byleth’s arm. “You okay, Bel?”

“Yes,” she said, and caught the way Felix’s cadence faltered at the use of her nickname. “I guess I’m not so good at handling them, either.”

The three of them made their way steadily to the rear balcony, with Felix acting as a plow through the throng and Jeralt dissuading any hangers-on. Byleth knew that there must be hundreds of strangers outside their little formation, just waiting for their chance to pounce, but inside it she was safe.

When they reached the top of the balcony staircase, the crowd had thinned to a sparse smattering - and most of them were familiar, welcome faces. Felix shot Sylvain a pointed stare, and Sylvain, in turn, raised his hands and clapped twice.

Below them, recessed into the balcony’s foundation, the orchestra struck up a lively melody, prompting several couples to make their way to the central dance floor.

“There we go, that’ll distract them for a while,” Sylvain said with a wink. “Good evening, Lady Byleth, Captain. Felix - _excellent_ rescue mission.”

Felix made a flat, noncommittal sound and resumed his place at the banister; Byleth dropped the corner of his cape as he passed.

“Good evening,” she said, addressing everyone present - so far she counted everyone she’d met on Founding Day, plus a few new faces. Since she didn’t know the dispositions of most of them, she switched to formal speech. “Forgive me, but I am not sure how to behave; what does one do at a party?”

Sylvain laughed, taken aback. “What does- Mercedes,” he said, looking about and locating her, “didn’t you spend all week teaching her?”

“Ah-” Mercedes said, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’m afraid we only covered dancing. I may have forgotten to mention other activities.”

Annette and Ingrid both grimaced, and Byleth got the feeling that this was a common event.

“Well, that’s all right,” Dimitri said jovially. “We’re all here now; we can just tell you.” He indicated the dance floor below them. “This is the introductory period, where the guests - ah, most guests,” he corrected with a glance to Felix and Ingrid, “engage in dancing and light conversation.”

“Then the party opens up to the rest of the manor,” Annette interjected. “That’s when people split off into smaller groups and go to dining or parlor rooms - oh, and the host gets to choose when it happens.”

Byleth perked up - this sounded like exactly the time she was after. She looked to Sylvain, who grinned deviously.

“Wow, so eager,” he teased. “Surely you know how many people out there are dying to meet you?”

She turned hesitantly to the sea of nobles; it seemed like those whom Felix had insulted were mostly recovered, conversing with pleasant smiles. It didn’t escape her notice, though, that while the bulk of the crowd had before been mostly oriented toward the entrance, they were now angled toward the back of the room.

“Too many,” Jeralt said sourly, voicing her own thoughts on the matter.

Ingrid gave Sylvain a stern look, and he relented with a long-suffering nod.

“Okay, how about this?” He asked, offering Byleth his arm. “I, the gracious host, will take you on a tour of the hall, and everyone who wishes to beg your attention may do so.”

Byleth regarded his proffered arm like it was a venomous snake, and Jeralt’s expression wasn’t far off.

“I know, I know, but what can you do? Propriety and all,” he said, laughing at their reactions. “It’ll go by more quickly than you think. One and done, like ripping off a bandage.”

She pursed her lips, desperately wishing she didn’t recognize the wisdom in his words. Slowly, she let go of Jeralt’s arm and laid her hand lightly on Sylvain’s, giving her father an apologetic smile as she did so.

“It’s okay, kiddo. I’ll be here when you get back,” he reassured her. His face went stone-cold as he addressed Sylvain, “You watch your step, Gautier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix: i'll cut through


	10. Chapter 10

Despite the many and varied misgivings she’d heard about Sylvain from others, he was turning out to be a competent guide through the perfumed jungle of the grand hall. He ensured that every noble that approached Byleth had adequate time to introduce themselves and pay their respects, but not quite enough to launch into any politically-driven speeches. If anyone looked as if they might divert the topic to policy, Sylvain politely dismissed them and moved on to the next group; onlookers learned what was acceptable in short order.

“How’s your first dip into the vipers’ nest?” He asked between visitors, leaning down to speak quietly by her ear while keeping an outwardly friendly appearance. “Exhausting, isn’t it?”

Common sense dictated that these were just people like any others - even the priests and worshipers at Garreg Mach wanted something from her, even if it was far more abstract than a legislative edge. Even so, after a while, the pressure of a thousand eyes became oppressive; their grasping hands became more like claws.

Byleth, for all her many years spent yearning for freedom, never thought she would actually miss the privacy afforded by her veil.

She maintained a neutral air as she answered, “I didn’t expect them to be so- hungry.”

“Hungry?” Sylvain tilted his head, mouth quirking. “That’s one way to put it,” he said, glancing to the back balcony where his friends were still gathered. Byleth followed suit, finding them engrossed in discussion - save for Felix, who pointedly looked away when noticed.

“I’d call them _bloodthirsty_ , myself,” he went on, and the bitterness that laced his levity gave her pause. “Don’t let your guard down.”

Byleth dipped her chin in acknowledgement, murmuring before they were waylaid again, “I don’t intend to.”

“It was good of you to come out, Your Grace,” spoke Baroness Dominic, dragging her husband by the arm to claim the next place in line. “Archbishop Rhea abstains from these sorts of events, so I do hope you’ll join us again in the future. Do you plan to attend the Midwinter Ball?”

“Ah, thank you,” Byleth said, unsure which part to address first. “Yes, I do.”

The Baroness got a certain look in her eye, one that Byleth was quickly learning to detect: opportunity. “You know, my eldest son-”

“The Holy Maiden appreciates your sentiments,” Sylvain cut in with a dashing smile. “If that’s all, Baron, Baroness?”

He didn’t wait for their responses before showing them away with a sweeping gesture - one that they were somehow compelled to follow.

“How did you do that?” Byleth whispered, equal parts impressed and frustrated, as their slow tour resumed again. Life would be so much easier if she could just _order_ people to stop talking to her.

Sylvain arched a brow. “You’re really not like them, are you?” He mused, mostly to himself, and nodded toward the couple he’d just shooed off. “As nobles, our lives are ruled by etiquette. If you can exploit that, you’re golden.”

He adjusted his posture so that they could speak in confidence; to an outsider, it might seem as though he were simply telling her a joke. “Some of our peers don’t subscribe to that logic, but trust me: the only way to win this game is to play it.”

 _Is that what they’re all doing?_ She wondered, looking around at the guests with fresh displeasure. _Playing a game?_

“Lady Arnim,” Sylvain purred to their newest visitor, using a dropped tone that tested the limits of Byleth’s facial composure; her mouth longed to slant into a frown. “You look as radiant as ever.”

The fur-collared woman from earlier sauntered up and gave the shallowest bow Byleth had ever seen, and with none of its customary deference. “Lord Sylvain,” she said with a razor-sharp smirk, “you know you needn’t address me so formally. I thought we were better acquainted than all that?”

Her calculating aqua eyes passed over Byleth, catching on her augur spike. “Your Grace. I trust we won’t be so crassly interrupted this time,” she said, flicking her wrist toward the back of the room.

Byleth stiffened; beside her, a tinge of worry crept into Sylvain’s expression.

“I apologize for that,” he said amiably, giving Byleth’s arm a subtle press. “Felix was simply delivering the guest of honor to the host, in his own way.”

Cornelia tilted her head and her ornate golden jewelry clinked softly together. “Such an apology would mean more coming from the man himself, but I suppose I shouldn’t expect the impossible.” 

She sidled up to Byleth, straightening a silky green lock of hair that had fallen out of place. “Do loosen up, my dear,” she advised, brushing manicured fingers over Byleth’s tense upper arms. “After all, everyone’s here for _you_.”

Something instinctive made Byleth jerk away from her, nearly crashing into Sylvain. The contact wasn’t painful, per se, but it went deeper than her skin; the sensation was akin to the rise and flare of holy power, but in reverse - a plumbing - a drop of ink in clear water.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, and realization of her own rudeness came at the same time the words left her mouth. “I- I mean-”

“Cornelia, you’ll have to excuse us,” Sylvain covered smoothly, drawing Byleth back with him a step. “This is Lady Byleth’s first gathering, and I’m afraid the excitement has overwhelmed her; you understand.”

With a titter and that same, lightly amused smirk, Cornelia nodded. “Of course. Have a lovely evening, Your Grace.” She swept past them, insinuating herself seamlessly into another group.

Sylvain steered Byleth back toward the safety of the balcony, leaning down to mutter, “Hey, are you all right? What happened to your poker face?”

Without a clear way to communicate _spiritual nausea_ , Byleth just shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, inhaling deeply. “You’re right. I was overwhelmed.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “We made it pretty far down the ranks, so anyone who’s annoyed at being skipped won’t have the nerve to say anything.” He thought a moment, then continued, “And if they do, we’ll have the pull to ignore them. How’s that?”

She laughed, lifting the hem of her dress as they climbed the stairs. That odd, heavy feeling leftover from Cornelia’s touch was starting to dissipate, but its presence was still a mystery. Seteth had always cautioned her against physical contact with the unfaithful; was this why?

“It’s reassuring, actually,” she replied, figuring she could drop the formality - he certainly had, and early. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sylvain said, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I can see why Felix likes you so much.” 

Byleth’s eyes went wide for just an instant before she mastered them again. She wanted to refute him, to deny the blush spreading furiously across her face, but the two had once more reached their starting point - and so she clammed up, disengaging from his arm and hurrying back to her father.

“What did you do to her?” Ingrid demanded on the spot, honing in on Byleth’s flustered cheeks and Sylvain’s dark grin.

“Nothing! _Nothing_ ,” he insisted, putting his hands up in surrender when Ingrid stomped over to him. “She’s just like you, it turns out; fun to tease! Ow, stop-”

\---

The aptly-named line-step was, essentially, just two parallel rows of people that occasionally traded places in time to music; there were face-turns, bows, and passes, but all one really had to do to blend in with their line was move to the correct rhythm. 

Byleth found this out the hard way when the actual speed of the dance turned out to be faster than the version she’d practiced with Mercedes. Luckily, she was an expert at hitting beats, so she simply made sure to arrive at the same places as the rest of her line, the middle parts be damned.

Jeralt didn’t fare much better, but he tried his hardest, and at several points the two shared a panicked, breathless laugh as they passed each other in a turn. All in all, it was an experience Byleth was glad to have ventured - but she still heaved a sigh of relief when her father bowed out after a few rounds.

“That’s enough dancing for me,” he said, rubbing at the small of his back. “I can already feel tomorrow morning’s aches. Besides-” he looked over his younger knights, “-the kids are never going to let this go. They were betting all week on whether or not I’d dance.”

She smiled at his griping, patting his arm as they headed back to the group. “You’ve endured such hardships,” she said dryly, to which he laughed.

He released her at the top of the balcony stairs, keeping his back foot off the landing. “Go have fun,” he said, urging her on with a nod when she hesitated. “They’re stiff because I’m their boss. Make some friends; I’ll find you later.”

She kept hold of his hand long enough to cradle it between both of hers. “Thank you for dancing with me, Father,” she said quietly.

Jeralt rubbed a thumb across her knuckles. “Any time, kiddo.”

She rejoined the others, stealthily blinking the moisture from her eyes, and caught the tail end of their current conversation.

“-which is why I danced with her _twice_ ,” Sylvain was explaining, holding up two fingers as if they lent something to his point.

Dimitri groaned. “Yes, but surely you can see how asking four other women right after might have offended your partner for the evening?” He glanced over and brightened at once. “Ah, Your Grace!”

“Lady Byleth!” Sylvain exclaimed, latching onto her presence like a drowning man might to a piece of driftwood. “We were just discussing moving to a parlor-”

“We were discussing your terrible habits,” Felix remarked.

“-for a more agreeable atmosphere,” Sylvain continued as if his friend hadn’t spoken. “All in favor?” A few hands shot up in their general vicinity. After Byleth timidly raised hers, a few more did, as well. “Great! I’ll just-”

He flagged down a servant and spoke lowly into his ear; a short time later, after the current waltz had ended, a distant bell chimed three times and the huge doors to the grand hall opened once again. This time they stayed open, and partygoers began filtering out through them and down the adjacent halls.

“And - there,” Sylvain said with an enthusiastic clap. “Let’s go!” 

He led them in a loose group across the hall, and Byleth noted with a hint of concern that everyone seemed to be pairing up for the trip. With her own partner departed, she ended up at the back of the line, trailing them until she glanced to the side and saw that Dimitri was in the same position.

“Ah,” they said unison.

“My father was tired of the excitement-” Byleth explained.

At the same time, Dimitri said, “The royal heir doesn’t traditionally take a partner-”

They both paused to allow the other to continue - then, when the silence stretched on for a few moments, Byleth laughed nervously.

“Let me- let me try that again,” Dimitri said, clearing his throat and offering his arm. “Allow me to show you the way, Your Grace.”

She bowed her head respectfully and accepted his offer, finding herself desensitized to his closeness from the night’s previous encounters. In retrospect, she decided that Sylvain must be quite the practiced escort, indeed; he hadn’t made her feel awkward at any point during their prolonged contact. In contrast, Dimitri was stiff as a board, holding his elbow at an angle that couldn’t be comfortable, jaw rigid and working.

“So,” Byleth began to break the tension, “you must always attend these parties alone?”

He kept a weather eye on their feet as they descended the stairs. “Yes. It isn’t absolute, but my uncle prefers that I not take a partner until I’m- uh-” his cheeks flushed and he changed the topic, “You know, I never properly apologized for the other day at the monastery.”

Byleth chose to let his evasion go; he sounded uncomfortable discussing it. “The other day?” She asked instead, having many recent _other days_ to choose from - but then that particular morning resurfaced. “Oh.”

“Indeed. Sylvain has been rather insistent on accompanying me to Garreg Mach lately,” Dimitri said, rolling his eye. “I hope we didn’t cause Lady Flayn any distress.”

 _On the contrary_ , Byleth thought with a wry smile, but kept it to herself. “She was not bothered in the slightest. Please think nothing of it.”

They lapsed into silence, walking arm-in-arm through the lavish hallways of the manor - but while it felt companionable and pleasant to Byleth, the prince seemed unsettled by it.

“Is something the matter?” She asked, tilting her head forward to catch his attention.

Dimitri flinched, turning at the sound of her voice as though he’d been listening to another. “No, ah- no.” He rubbed at his temple. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Byleth’s careful composure faltered. How many times had she thought or spoken those same words herself? And he was obviously _not_ fine; his face was pale, his hands slightly shaking. “Are you sure?” She asked quietly, forgoing her formal tone.

He looked directly at her for the first time in their conversation, showing her the deep weariness in his good eye.

“Hurry up,” came Felix’s harsh command from the end of the hall; Byleth and Dimitri both looked up, startled, and saw him leaning one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed and one finger pointed around the corner. “There’s a situation.”

There was something odd about his face, though; it was pinched, but not in anger - she was an expert in what _that_ looked like by now. No, if she had to put a name to the glint in his eyes, it would probably be...fear.

Byleth freed herself and went ahead as fast as politeness would allow. Felix drew back at the speed of her approach, adopting one of those defensive stances he so loathed.

“What happened?” She asked, looking around the corner to assess the situation, but found only the rest of the group; they were huddled around a closed door while Ashe twisted two fine metal picks in its lock.

Felix appeared at her side, sounding bored. “Nothing. They’re just idiots.”

A loud snap echoed down the hall, followed by Ashe’s low muttering, “Oh, darn it.”

She rounded on Felix, frowning. Then why had he looked so afraid just now? Judging by his face, she’d been expecting someone to be sick or injured-

“What?” He asked, mirroring her expression. His eyes were amber glass once more: placid, watchful, and unreadable. He gave her a questioning look and brushed past, jerking his head toward the commotion.

Byleth joined him, and soon his odd behavior was overshadowed by the chaos at the door.

“What if someone sees us?” Annette asked, glancing anxiously down the hallway in both directions. “Can’t we just pick another parlor room?”

Sylvain scoffed, “Not if you want my Almyran brandy,” to which his friends made several vague sounds of agreement. “Besides, it’s my house.”

“We might not have a choice,” Ashe said mournfully, holding up two bits of twisted metal.

Byleth didn’t even have to turn to see Felix’s taunting smile; it hovered infuriatingly in her peripheral vision.

“Excuse me,” she said, making Ashe jump. “May I have a look at that?”

\---

“I’ve got to say, Your Grace, I knew you could perform miracles, but-” Sylvain shook his head incredulously as he poured out several tumblers of dark liquor, “-not, like, _crimes_.”

The group had spread out across the parlor room’s various furniture: Mercedes and Annette played softly at the piano; Dedue and Dimitri remained standing next to the hearth, glasses in hand; Ingrid and Ashe sat on opposite ends of a sofa; Byleth and Felix had chosen the two plush armchairs in front of the fire.

“I had a lot of time to learn- many things,” she deflected, accepting one of the squat cups from her host. Other than the occasional glass of wine with dinner, she had very little experience with alcohol; she gave the liquid a cursory sniff and wrinkled her nose. It was smoky and spicy, aromas that she would love in a tea, but these were underlaid with something sharply acidic.

“Um, are you allowed to drink this, Your Grace?” Ashe asked apprehensively, still bashful from their interaction at the door. 

The glass froze next to her lips. Was _that_ the reason she never saw liquor around the monastery? Byleth looked to Mercedes, running through a mental list of every obscure rule she could dredge up.

“Oh, good question,” Mercedes said, tapping one finger against the piano’s fall board. “I’ve never heard of anything like that? But there _are_ a lot of rules, so…”

“You’re allowed,” Dedue said simply.

Byleth turned toward him; she’d never heard him speak a word other than his own name at Founding Day. “You’re familiar with Church doctrine?” She asked in disbelief; if she wasn’t mistaken, Dedue hailed from Duscur, the Kingdom’s most recent vassal state - and a place where people didn’t often follow the teachings of Seiros.

Dedue gave an efficient, miniscule nod. “Such knowledge lets me aid His Highness in Church matters.”

“Dedue’s role is a lot like mine,” Mercedes explained, “but he’s much more experienced.”

His face darkened and he looked away, grunting.

“Well, give us a toast then,” Sylvain prompted, handing off the last of the glasses and raising his own. Everyone else - except Felix - did the same, looking to Byleth expectantly.

She shrank back into her chair, wishing it would fully absorb her. “To, uh- to friendship,” she half-said, half-asked, taking a tiny sip of her drink and nearly coughing it up; it _burned_ , sliding down her throat like syrup and leaving tingling in its wake.

If anyone else thought her toast was as moronic as she did, they didn’t show it. “To friendship,” the room echoed in various pitches.

“Ugh,” Ashe complained, covering his mouth. “You weren’t kidding about the potency.”

After the heat faded from her chest, Byleth quite liked the aftertaste - it was full of that smoke and spice she’d smelled earlier. She took another experimental sip, and this time the burn was actually pleasant. “I like it,” she said, turning the glass so that the firelight illuminated its crystal edges.

“Damn right,” Sylvain said, downing the rest of his. “So, Your Grace. Tell us about yourself.”

Byleth looked up, finding many eyes on her once more. “I’m not sure what to say,” she confessed. “My life is- not terribly exciting.” 

“Well, what’s your favorite flower?” Mercedes asked.

Ashe followed up, “What sorts of books do you read?”

“Are you engaged?” Annette’s inquisitive voice silenced the rest; she looked around in mild panic. “Is that weird? Ashe and I are engaged,” she said, and Ashe blushed shyly. “Do Church officials not get married?”

Ingrid cleared her throat. “They get married,” she said carefully. “But it’s different from the gentry’s customs.”

“How so?” Byleth asked, grabbing onto this chance to learn about a topic on which Seteth had been historically evasive. “My tutor never mentioned such things.” Across the gap between their chairs, Felix shifted slightly.

“Really? Then I assume you’re unattached,” Ingrid said, and Byleth nodded. “The Church tends to marry within its own ranks, since those descended from divine bloodlines have the potential to become vessels.”

Annette hummed in understanding. “Oh, I get it! That would be bad for a regular family, because they might lose a-” she stopped cold, but the words had already left her mouth. They landed in a quiet room, and everyone’s expressions darkened.

“Child,” Byleth finished. “It’s okay,” she said to Annette’s wide, pleading eyes. This was probably why Seteth was so reluctant to speak on it, she thought; her mother had been a nun in the Church, but left it to marry Jeralt.

She looked down into her drink, swirled it around, and then drank the rest in one gulp. “My favorite flowers are violets,” she said lightly, “and I love to read romance and adventure novels.”

The sour mood revitalized somewhat; Ashe questioned her on specific authors and tales, Mercedes suggested several florists in Fhirdiad that could procure rare species of violets, and Annette played her a lively, melodic tune on the piano as an apology. All the while, Felix watched her like a hawk, contributing little to the discussion and rarely touching his brandy.

It took Byleth an embarrassingly long time to realize that whenever she drank, the group drank - those that cared about politeness, at least. Sylvain kept to his own quick pace and Felix to his slow one, but everyone else matched Byleth; and that was dangerous, because none of the others knew about alcohol’s limited effect on vessels.

By the time she’d noticed anything amiss, Dimitri and Sylvain had taken a casual discussion on tactics to a nearby chess board and it had grown progressively more heated and less coherent, Annette and Mercedes had gone from playing proper hymns to bawdy tavern reels at the piano and giggling periodically, and Ingrid, Ashe, and Dedue were dozing off on the couch.

“Proud of yourself?” Felix asked quietly, one elbow up on the arm of his chair, chin rested in his palm.

Byleth set her cup down on the small table that separated their chairs, grimacing. “I didn’t know, I swear,” she said, pushing the glass away from her. “Do you think they’ll be mad?”

He exhaled through his nose, a small half-laugh that, coupled with a faint rosiness high on his cheeks, made Byleth’s mouth go dry. “They won’t remember enough to be mad.” His eyes flicked over her body, then returned to her face. “But you seem fine.”

“I don’t think I _can_ get drunk,” she admitted wryly. “I probably should have led with that.”

“Probably,” Felix agreed with a smirk.

They fell into a comfortable silence; with the warm glow of the fire behind them, Byleth could almost pretend that this was the lake shelter - almost. The background of sometimes-discordant piano music and barely restrained argument made her want to cover her ears and run; she frowned at her lap, wringing her hands together.

A rustle of cloth raised her head. Felix stood before her chair, offering his arm, though his eyes were averted and his free hand covered his mouth. 

“Come on,” he said, voice muffled by his glove. “I don’t like it, either.”

She nearly laughed at the absurdity of his pose, but held it in; this must have taken courage, and she didn’t want to inadvertently mock it. Instead she wound her arm through his, letting him pull her up from the chair - but then all traces of mirth left her.

Evidently she was less steady on her feet than she’d thought, because she wobbled on her way up, forcing Felix to assume more of her weight. For a moment, as she rose, their faces were mere inches apart - so close she could smell the brandy on his breath, see the remnants of it glistening on his lower lip - and the proximity amplified the fire’s heat to an unbearable degree. His eyes widened in alarm and Byleth knew hers must be, too; she hadn’t meant to get this close, but now she was _here_ , and she had no idea what to do about it.

Mercifully, someone jostled the chess board on the other side of the room, sending little ivory pieces clattering to the floor and prompting a loud peal of laughter from Sylvain-

And then the moment was over. Byleth sank back down on her feet and Felix allowed her the space to compose herself, both of them cherry-red and breathless.

“Hey,” Jeralt said without ceremony, leaning around the slightly open door to the parlor room. “I’ve been looking all over for you guys.”

Felix disentangled his arm from hers at a supernatural speed.

“Captain,” Dimitri slurred, giving his best attempt at a salute while he and Sylvain were crawling around under the game table and picking up chess pieces. 

The piano stilled with a grating disharmony. “Captain!” Annette called, throwing up her hands like his presence warranted celebration.

“Wow, I sure missed the real party,” Jeralt said, shaking his head. He located Byleth and smiled. “Time to go, kiddo. I promised Seteth you’d be home by midnight.”

She nodded shakily, hoping he’d attribute her flustered state to inebriation.

“Well...goodnight,” she said to Felix, avoiding his eyes as she stepped past him, but even that slight brush against his side made her shiver - Goddess, what was _wrong_ with her?

“Goodnight, Bel,” he murmured, barely audible, meant only for her as she left their intimate bubble. 

It was colder outside it than she remembered; colder than winter should be; colder everywhere that wasn’t at his side. And it was that particular realization - one that hit her on the very last step down to the Gautiers’ front courtyard, making her stumble on the flagstones - that finally opened her eyes to how well and truly ruined she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my notes for this chapter included such gems as "something weird and cryptic from cornelia" - very cool, super helpful, thanks past me


	11. Chapter 11

“Byleth, this is _wonderful_ ,” Flayn gushed, rising to her toes to perform another theatrical twirl in the center of the living room; the skirt of her gown - Byleth’s gown - fluttered around her ankles as she came down. 

Byleth, who had just finished recounting her late-night revelation, watched from her bedroom doorway, wringing her damp hair out in a towel and frowning.

“Why do you look so glum? You have just awakened to your first love!” Flayn - who had lost their little wager and yet somehow still ended up in the dress, Byleth noted - assumed an elegant dancer’s pose, holding up the gown’s oversized bodice with her free hand. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” Byleth said with a little puff of laughter, which faded as she reconciled herself to ruining her friend’s mood. “Flayn,” she said, “did you know that the faithful don’t marry outside the Church?”

Flayn’s pose, and her elated expression, fell. “No. Wherever did you hear that?”

“My riding instructor - and several others - mentioned it at the party.” Byleth retreated inside her room, unable to bear the sudden dismay she’d caused. She tugged a comb through her hair ruefully. “Apparently it’s because our bloodlines sometimes produce vessels.”

Slender arms, partially covered by too-big silk gloves, encircled Byleth’s waist from behind, startling her. “I did not know,” Flayn said, her voice muffled by the thick material of Byleth’s bathing robe. It was a statement, not a question, when she continued quietly, “Father and Rhea kept this from us.”

“Yes,” Byleth confirmed, avoiding her own sorrowful eyes in the mirror. “And so, you see, it’s not wonderful.” A lump rose unbidden in her throat, and she swallowed it down. “In fact, I wish I’d never ‘awakened’ to it at all.”

Flayn’s arms tightened around her middle. “It is much too early to say such things,” she insisted, and her angry green eyes popped up over Byleth’s shoulder. “What is the wording of this rule, exactly? Surely there must be exceptions - look at your parents!”

“I - don’t know,” Byleth stammered, caught off guard by the sudden vivacity. 

“Well, then, you must find out,” Flayn said, retracting her arms to cross them over her chest in a commanding manner. “Until we do, I will not hear your lamentations.”

Byleth put down her comb with numb fingers. Flayn was right; if it truly was a rule, then there must be several notable exceptions. Flayn’s own family, House Aegir of the Empire, produced vessels fairly often - and people still married into it.

“All right. I’ll ask around,” she promised, offering her friend a weak smile.

Flayn’s faux-hardened expression softened to its natural state and she leaned her head on Byleth’s shoulder. “Have faith. Love is beautiful and sacred, and the Goddess would not grant it to you in vain.”  
  


\---

“Marriage outside…? Oh- of course, from the party,” Ingrid replied, slowing her horse so that they rode adjacent to one another. “Forgive me. My memory of last Sunday evening is a bit...blurry.”

Byleth pursed her lips and looked away, painfully aware that she’d caused such an ailment. “Uh, yes. You mentioned that Church members usually intermarry; is that a rule?”

“Not from the nobility’s perspective, no. It’s more like a recommendation,” Ingrid said, glancing askance at her pupil. “It’s strange that you don’t know more about this, considering you’re at a marriageable age.”

“Well, hm,” Byleth hedged, trying to find the right combination of polite words, “my teacher is loath to speak of such things to myself and Lady Flayn. I don’t think he wishes to see either of us marry.”

Ingrid chuckled. “Oh, so you two have been sheltered? I see.” She cocked her head to the side. “Marriage among the gentry is a nightmare - trust me, I speak from personal experience. Adding in the possibility of giving up a potential heir to the Church, it becomes a risk that very few are willing to bear.” 

“There are already so many ways to lose a child,” she said somberly, then seemed to catch herself. “Ah- not that becoming a vessel is a tragedy, Your Grace-”

Byleth shook her head. “I understand. Please, go on.”

“Right,” Ingrid said, clearing her throat. “My point is: it’s not forbidden for a noble to take a spouse from the Church-” she cringed prematurely, like she didn’t want to continue, but pressed on regardless, “-but it _is_ irresponsible. Especially for Houses with only one heir, like Gautier...or Fraldarius.”

Their mounts were side-by-side and of a similar height, so Byleth’s options to mask her shock were limited; she ended up turning away in a jerky, decidedly unsubtle fashion, and when she righted herself, Ingrid was staring.

“Are you all right?” She asked, eyes sharp and appraising, and dread settled over Byleth like a blanket. Did she know? Could she see?

“I’m fine,” Byleth said, the practiced words sliding off her tongue with ease. She wrestled with twin disappointments: first the knowledge that she would be an _irresponsible_ choice for Felix, and then an indignant self-chastisement that her mind had jumped immediately from attraction to marriage with no middle ground.

“Thank you for telling me,” she went on, schooling her face into something acceptable. “I’ve been- curious. Since we spoke of it.”

Ingrid gave her one last, lingering look before turning her attention back to the trail. “All right,” she said, frowning ever so slightly. “If your teacher won’t tell you these things, I’d be happy to discuss such curiosities with you again.”  
  


\---

Within the Church, augury was a discipline all its own, standing alongside scribing and oration as one of the three great pillars of Seiros’s teachings. A priest, especially a high-ranking one, was expected to be at least competent in each area, but specialize in just one.

The Holy Maiden was expected to master all three.

“The Goddess has no weaknesses, and thus Her vessel must be perfect,” Rhea intoned; it was becoming her favorite phrase to use whenever Byleth made a mistake. She traced the lines of the charcoal blood sign the two were studying.

“Look again,” she said, drawing her student’s attention to the sign’s major symbol: a dog with its paws raised as if it were walking. “What does this evoke?”

Byleth suppressed a sigh and bent over the page. _Two lords were feuding over their borders_ , she thought, going over the premise again, _and a farmer asked his local bishop to which one he should send his harvest, since his lands were in the disputed territory_.

“Why didn’t the farmer ask his local magistrate, instead?” She wondered aloud, turning her head this way and that. Surely the King’s laws of the time would have been easier to understand than _this_. Her head pounded, a painful reminder of her sleepless night; Flayn’s question, and Ingrid’s subsequent reply, had chased away any rest she might have gotten.

A faint crease formed between Rhea’s brows. “In a situation where legality was prone to bias, this man wisely sought a higher judgement.”

 _Priests can’t be biased in their readings?_ Byleth thought, but kept it inside this time. “The dog evokes...loyalty,” she decided.

“Obedience,” Rhea corrected softly. “And the minor symbol?”

Byleth refocused on the lower part of the sign, disgruntled at her multitude of mistakes. But Rhea insisted that this was the only way to learn: to hone her intuition through repeated failure. 

Nearby the dog, angled strangely like it was casually thrown there, was an open book, its pages filled in with blood. The positions of the two symbols suggested a plain or a path on which the dog walked, and beside which the book rested.

“A book means-” Byleth hesitated; there were so many prophetic interpretations for texts. “History, or tradition, or knowledge,” she listed. “Whatever it is, I think the sign says it should be disregarded?”

Rhea nodded. “Good.” She paused, then reached over to brush the hair out of Byleth’s face, casting light upon the dark smudges underneath her eyes. “Are you feeling ill, my dear one?”

The contact brought her fretful night back to mind, and instead of diverting the topic back to the symbols, Byleth asked quietly, “Have you ever been married?”

Rhea withdrew her hand at once, looking as startled as if Byleth had struck her. “Where is this coming from?” She asked slowly, folding her hands in her lap and straightening her posture. Where before they had been teacher and student, mother and daughter, Rhea had now donned the Archbishop’s mantle.

Byleth found herself doing the same out of habit, formalizing her tone and sitting position. “Marriage was a topic of discussion at the party,” she said. “And it has preoccupied me since.”

“I...see.” Rhea closed her eyes momentarily, like she was preparing herself. “I have never taken a spouse, no.”

“But Seteth has?” Byleth pressed on despite Rhea’s discomfort; for once, the shoe was on the other foot. She carefully added, “And my mother?”

Rhea _flinched_ , a startlingly vulnerable reaction that Byleth had never seen from her before. “Your mother-” she paused, averting her eyes. “Sitri’s path was less traditional, but they were both indeed wed.”

She took a deep, steadying breath, placed a hand over her heart, and looked up once more. “Have you been considering your own prospects?”

Byleth searched her mentor’s face for any signs of suspicion, but found only melancholy; that made sense, she reasoned. Rhea probably regretted losing Sitri, a promising young priestess, to childbirth. Byleth’s birth.

“In a sense,” she said. “Must my partner come from within the Church? And must I bear children?”

Rhea smiled gently, though it was tinged with remorse. “As evidenced by my own life, you need not commit to matrimony or to motherhood if your heart does not desire such things. Divine blood runs thick among the faithful; there will be others to carry it on.”

She bent over the charcoal blood sign again, obscuring her face. “Let us return to the lesson, darling child. For the immediate future, concern yourself only with study.”

Byleth obeyed; she had little choice. But it was only later, while nursing a concentration headache and a cup of ginger tea, that it hit her: Rhea had dodged her most important question.

\---

On Saturday morning, she readied herself for a few hours of horseback riding with Dimitri, determined to find out about his strange behavior at the party. It had been a far cry from his usual, polite self, and she wondered if his position, like hers, necessitated a public persona. If so, then perhaps they could commiserate over it.

So single-minded was she, that she nearly walked past Sylvain at the gate, and he had to double back and repeat his greeting to get her attention.

“-ah, Your Grace?” He prompted, and Byleth finally raised her head in surprise. “Sorry - didn’t mean to scare you. I come with gifts! And an apology. Oh, not from me,” he clarified, lifting one of his arms, upon which hung a wicker basket. “Dimitri couldn’t make it today - royal business, you know - and so he sends his regrets, and me, and this tea set from his personal collection.”

Byleth blinked the shock from her eyes. “Oh,” she said, peering over the lip of the basket; inside was a delicate porcelain teapot and four cups, wrapped in blue velvet and surrounded by an assortment of leaves in fine mesh bags.

“I- accept the apology?” She half-asked, unsure how this sort of exchange was supposed to work. She looked past Sylvain, down the long road to Fhirdiad. “That’s quite the journey to deliver a message.”

Sylvain grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Well, yeah, but I figured since His Highness was unavailable, we could push next weekend’s tea date up to - let’s say - now?” He suggested hopefully.

 _Ah_. Byleth’s face cracked into a smile. “Sure,” she said, nodding her head toward the academic tower. “The public tearoom is this way.”

“Public-?” Sylvain protested, but his tone changed when he witnessed the now-common phenomenon that Byleth liked to call ‘the scattering of the acolytes.’ Novitiates and students of all ages choked on their tea and hastily packed up their study materials when the Holy Maiden entered, and within a few minutes of their arrival, Byleth and Sylvain had the room to themselves.

“Wow,” he said approvingly. “Hey, I know you praised my skills at the party, but _that_ was art.”

Byleth unpacked the tea set at a central table - within plain view of the open, arched doorway; a placement to which Seteth could make no complaint - and procured a still-steaming kettle from another table’s fire. She wanted to answer him honestly, to say that it was not a pleasant occurrence when her own brethren fled from her, but instead she just pursed her lips and prepared the teapot.

But her mood was not lost on Sylvain. He slid into a seat at the table, glancing between her and the doorway. “I take it that happens pretty often?” He asked more seriously, setting out the peripheral bowls and spoons.

“It does,” Byleth said bitterly, replacing the kettle on its hook with more force than necessary.

Sylvain hummed like he understood. “So you spend a lot of time alone, then?”

“I do.” She gingerly placed the lid on the teapot and sat opposite her guest. “Are you surprised?”

“Knowing your social skills? No,” he said. “Just- from the way you act, I kind of guessed that you were isolated. I bet you’re mad about it, too,” he continued, laughing when she made a small sound of objection. “Don’t worry; you’re in good company.”

Byleth sucked in a breath. “You, isolated?” She found that rather hard to believe, given his actions at the party.

“Not like this,” he said, gesturing to the room around them. “Not physically. But we’re both, ah, how to put it-” he looked at the ceiling, “-trapped in our roles?”

Her mouth flattened into a line. She’d never thought about nobles that way; that they could feel as bound by obligation as she did. “Yes, that’s accurate. Oh- but,” she said quickly, not wanting to give him the wrong impression. “I wasn’t forced to attend your party. I had a lot of fun, actually!”

Sylvain’s eyes sharpened; he steepled his fingers and rested his chin on top of them. “I _know_ ,” he said playfully, grinning and cocking his head to the side. “But, Lady Byleth, did _you_ know that I, an extremely accomplished socialite, can hold my liquor remarkably well?”

She frowned, taking a moment to digest his meaning - but then she remembered exactly what had happened in the parlor room, and the resulting rush of blood to her face left her dizzy.

“Mhm,” he confirmed, all too pleased with himself. “I know a lovestruck soul when I see one.”

Byleth covered her face with both hands, overwhelmed by his piercing eyes. “Please don’t tell him,” she whined, shrinking down into her chair. After a few moments of silence, she peeked between her fingers.

Sylvain sat with his arms folded on the tabletop, examining her. “You don’t want him to know?” He asked, perplexed, and looked like he was on the cusp of continuing before deciding against it.

She lowered her hands, feeling the blush slowly receding from her skin. It was a fair question, she supposed; Sylvain wasn’t privy to the breadth of knowledge she’d gained over the week.

“It’s like you said: we’re trapped in our roles,” she said, smiling sadly. “I’m going to lead the Church one day, and Felix is the only heir to his House.” She recalled Ingrid’s words and continued softly, “To pursue him would be...irresponsible.”

Sylvain squinted across the table, stunned, and then let his head fall into his hands with an exaggerated groan. “ _Irresponsible_? What in the- did Ingrid say that?”

“I- yes,” Byleth said defensively, misliking his disdainful tone. “She was right.”

He grabbed a fistful of his own hair like he was about to pull it out. “No, listen. _Listen_. I don’t know what else she told you, but the reason we nobles don’t marry the Church’s people is because of one thing: conflict of interest.” He glanced down at the teapot. “It’s probably done steeping.”

Byleth, invested in his explanation, had forgotten to keep counting the time; she set about preparing two cups while he continued.

“If a noble and a member of the clergy get married, and that noble has any say in Faerghus’s politics, they might begin to favor the Church, and vice versa; there’s a delicate balance of power between Kingdom aristocracy, the ruler, and the Archbishop, and nobody wants to tip that scale unnecessarily.” He accepted one of the cups, forgoing any sugar.

“Now imagine if that couple has children,” he went on, “and their heir grows up with additional biases. Should one of them become a vessel, they’d introduce those biases to the upper echelons of the Church.”

She stirred a sugar cube into her own cup, listening intently. “You know a lot about this,” she observed. “But all I’m hearing is the same thing Ingrid advised.”

Sylvain inclined his head. “Right. For _most_ nobles. But I’ve known Felix since we were kids, and he’s constantly looking for reasons to bail on his title. He never wanted it. The guy absolutely hates politics.”

Byleth’s spoon stilled in its arc. Was he suggesting that she should ask Felix to abdicate? That seemed exceedingly selfish; there were aspects she disliked about her role, too, but she was also uniquely poised to help people. There must be facets of his life that Felix enjoyed, as well - ones that he would hesitate to abandon.

And there she was again, considering marriage to a man she’d only just gotten to know, caught up in a Flayn-like fantasy. She exhaled forcefully. _Come on, Byleth, really?_

“We don’t have to talk about it any more today,” he said, holding up a hand as if to still her racing thoughts. “Or ever, if you’d prefer. I only wanted to say that it’s not a hopeless endeavor. And- I’m on your side.”

She chuckled hollowly. “You are? Why?”

“Well,” Sylvain said, glancing around and then leaning over the gap to whisper, “I know what one-sided love feels like. It’s horrible. Yes, you heard that right,” he confirmed, smirking. “Ingrid. Since I was twelve.”

Byleth opened her mouth to ask a million questions - _Why don’t you tell her? Doesn’t it hurt? If you’re in love, why do you act like_ that _?_ \- but Sylvain raised a finger to his lips and winked, and her jaw snapped shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's slightly shorter, but some Other Things are happening next chapter, so I thought this was a good cutoff point!
> 
> In other news: Byleth and Sylvain form a friendship based on fake smiles and attraction to angry oblivious babies


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's ahead of schedule! enjoy! :)
> 
> disclaimer: edited while drunk - will do another pass in the morning

\---Part 1: Byleth---

She watched the black carriage, proudly bearing the family crest of Fraldarius, rise over the monastery’s hill on its way to the main gate, and sighed. She should be excited to see Felix, to sharpen her skills once more, but Sylvain’s and Ingrid’s warring viewpoints played in her mind on a relentless loop.

In turns, she found herself agreeing with both of them, swapping from one opinion to the other with the changing breeze but never fully settling. It was all she could do to compose her face, to bury the topic of _marriage_ so far down inside herself that it could not spring up without warning, before the carriage arrived.

“Hey,” Felix greeted when she stepped into the cabin. He sat up straighter when she pulled down her veil. “Are you sick or something?”

Byleth dropped onto the bench opposite his, smiling tiredly at his concern. “No, it’s just been a long week,” she said, waving one hand dismissively. “How was yours?”

His brow scrunched up. “‘Long’ is a good term for it,” he said with a shake of his head. “Dimitri and the captain are in a frenzy over some patrol reports, and Ingrid won’t stop talking about _marriage_.” He spat the word, and Byleth was similarly aggrieved to hear it. “It’s driving me insane. I told her that if she wants to court someone, she should just do it and stop bothering me.”

She stared resolutely out the window, refusing to meet his eyes lest he read the guilt in hers. “Patrol reports?” She asked, clinging to the only safe part of his sentence. “Is that why Dimitri couldn’t make it this morning?”

Felix grunted. “Probably. There was some activity at the southern border, relayed back to us through watchtowers. ‘Activity’ could mean nearly anything,” he explained, shrugging. “Those tower signals don’t get very complicated.”

“And none of this worries you,” she said, taking in his unbothered demeanor.

The corners of his mouth ticked up. “No, it doesn’t. An aggressive incursion or a fighting force would have meant a different signal. I know that; the knights know it; even Dimitri knows. But our Regent is paranoid - and he doesn’t listen to his advisor.”

His advisor; that would be Lord Rodrigue, she recalled.

“A messenger with a more detailed report should arrive by morning. They’ll confirm what the _competent_ members of this government already understand,” he said, not bothering to conceal his disgust. “Until then, the Kingdom’s royal heir and its Knight-Captain will continue to run around like headless chickens, reworking security protocols instead of doing their jobs.”

Byleth leaned back against the cabin wall, taking in the way Felix spoke about these local politics; far from the hatred that Sylvain suggested, or the apathy that Felix himself had claimed so long ago at the lake, he seemed genuinely invested in the situation.

“What?” He asked, returning her probing stare. “Does it bother you that I’m not worried?”

She smiled gently in reply; Felix blinked and looked away.

“No, I was just thinking,” she said, clasping her hands in her lap. “Did you share your thoughts with your father? Or Dimitri?”

The sour look on his face answered her before his words did. “Of course not. They would simply blather at me about _loyalty_ and _duty_ \- how we must serve the Regent even if his ideas are moronic.”

She remembered Lord Rufus’s outrageous, dramatic affect and barked out a surprised laugh - then immediately covered her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbled, self-conscious at the way the keen sound had filled their space.

“Why?” Felix asked, giving her no indication that he’d taken any offense, and the normality of his voice made her pause and reevaluate her response. 

This drive to be small, to stay quiet and demure - where had it come from? Felix had seen her filthy and blood-soaked, so what was wrong with an obnoxious laugh?

“I- don’t know,” she said. He’d never placed any expectations on her before; regardless of how her self-awareness had changed since the party, _that_ wouldn’t.

Byleth took a deep, refreshing breath, and started the long journey down out of her own head.

“About Lord Rufus - I think I get it,” she said. “He receives an oracle from Rhea and I for First Devotion, so I’ve seen, uh, what you’re talking about.”

Felix’s head snapped toward her at the mention of oracles. “That oaf takes your blood every week?”

“Not always,” she said, confused at his outrage. “Sometimes it’s Dimitri. And they don’t _take_ it, or interact with it at all, really. It just sort of- actually, let me show you.”

She pulled up the sleeve of her robe and held her arm out, but before she could raise her augur spike, one of Felix’s hands closed around her wrist.

“Don’t,” he said darkly.

Byleth shuddered at the sudden contact and dearly hoped he couldn’t feel it.

“It’s just an augury. They’re harmless,” she explained, attributing his behavior to his ignorance of the Church. She tried to pull her arm back, but while his grasp was loose enough to prevent discomfort, it was still the unyielding hold of a warrior.

“Bel,” he said, and the urgency in his voice made her look up. His eyes were narrow bands of amber, tight with distress. “Don’t spill your blood for me. Please.”

The augur spike fell back to her chest, twisting on its chain. For a few short seconds, the only sounds in the cabin were the rapid breaths of its two passengers.

“Okay, I won’t,” she agreed quietly. She didn’t quite understand his reasoning, but his conviction was clear. “I won’t. I promise,” she insisted when his expression remained tense, and only then did it relax.

“Good,” he said, glancing down to where he held her. He hesitated for a moment, then changed his grip, trailing the tips of his fingers over her pulse point.

Byleth held perfectly still while he explored the area, calloused skin abrading her own. It was the first time since the wolf attack that he’d touched her without gloves, but back then their contact was a necessity of medical attention; this time it was voluntary.

“It’s true what they say, then,” he mused, bringing his other hand up to aid in his prodding. 

She’d shared fleeting physicality with her fellow vessels before - a light hug or a pat, most commonly with Flayn - but it had never felt anything like this. His hands easily cradled hers between them, fingers splayed out over her wrist, and everywhere he touched prickled like the aftereffects of Almyran brandy.

It was only when she made a tiny, hitched sound in the back of her throat that he looked up from what he was doing - and seemed to _realize_ what he was doing. His eyes went wide, mouth slanting in embarrassment.

“Sorry-” he began, retreating to his side of the cabin, but stopped when Byleth’s hand snaked out and clung onto his wrist instead.

It was like she was possessed; she knew she should release him, but a primitive part of her brain wasn’t ready to give up that contact, that warmth. She couldn’t describe it, couldn’t define it, floundered in the lack of context for how _right_ their connection felt.

Felix stared intently at their arms, then gradually lifted his eyes to hers. This time, instead of shame or bewilderment, Byleth saw a question, and she inclined her chin a fraction of an inch in reply.

He lingered on her face a moment longer, then looked back down. His arm moved backward, and she was worried he would withdraw it completely, but then his palm slid across hers and slowly turned, fingers wrapping around the back of her hand. 

Byleth let out a ragged breath and tightened her hold, reveling in the return of that perfect warmth. She tilted her head, asking a similar wordless question of him, and he mirrored her miniscule nod, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

Three sharp knocks to the door of the carriage jolted them back to reality; Byleth pressed herself back against the wall, folding her hands in her lap with the agility of a seasoned faker, while Felix’s hand went directly to his sword pommel and he ducked like he might have to slice through the siding.

“My lord,” a muffled voice called. “The road is blocked ahead by a group of-” the voice lapsed, “-a dozen or so people in Church attire, on foot, and hailing the Holy Maiden. How shall we proceed?”

Felix cleared his throat, hand dropping from his blade. He glanced to Byleth, then down to her veil, and gave her enough time to secure it before opening the window.

“Tell them to move aside. If they won’t go, ask them their purpose,” he instructed the knight outside, and the man saluted and rode off.

“Church attire,” Byleth echoed, still somewhat dazed from before. “They probably want a blessing of some sort. I can do that.” She moved to open the door, but Felix stopped her with a short gesture.

“Wait,” he said. “How do they know you’re in here?”

She paused to consider this, then sat heavily back down on the bench. That was a good point; by design, nothing about her entourage suggested anything Church-related. She supposed they could have watched her leave the monastery, but then how could they have gotten ahead of the carriage without horses?

“Someone from Garreg Mach could have told them; perhaps their request is urgent, and they couldn’t wait for Rhea’s approval?” Byleth pondered the merits of this idea, and then another struck her.

“Do you think it’s highwaymen?” She asked, irrationally excited at the notion. Such things only happened in adventure novels.

Felix shot her an annoyed look, the last vestiges of awkwardness waning from his features. “They’d have to be the dullest bandits in existence to target an armed Fraldarius transport.”

The knight from the window reappeared there. “They won’t move, my lord. They’re asking for an oracle from Lady Byleth.” He looked ahead uncertainly, then back inside. “None of them are carrying weapons. Should we remove them by force?”

“No,” Felix said instantly. “Take your men and assume a perimeter around the carriage. Watch for others off the road. Raise an alarm if any of them try to get closer.”

The knight saluted and left once again, this time followed by shouted commands and several sets of overlapping hoofbeats.

“Well?” Felix asked, regarding her calmly. He loosened his sword in its sheath and took a pair of brown leather gloves from where they were tucked into his belt. As he pulled them on, Byleth realized he was asking for her input.

“Oh- um,” she stammered, unused to making big decisions like this. She carded through the information they’d gathered so far - Church attire; blocking the way; unlikely to be bandits - and weighed it against her own knowledge. 

Supplicants sometimes came from far away to receive prophecy, and on little notice. Temples were supposed to welcome these travelers with open arms and treat them with utmost hospitality. There was still the issue of their timing, though, and Byleth couldn’t account for that no matter how much she retreaded the facts.

Felix was patient through her deliberation, keeping an eye on her and the window in turns, but his body was coiled to strike should the need arise.

“If they’re in trouble, I want to help,” she decided, and there was a resulting flutter deep within her spirit. Sothis was with her.

“Reckless, but not unexpected,” he said, but he wore a tiny, approving smile that belied his severe tone. “All right. Stay behind me on approach. If a fight breaks out, we fall back behind the knights’ line. Got it?”

Byleth frowned. “ _If_ a fight breaks out,” she emphasized, unwilling to think ill of the faithful without any proof, “I can handle myself.”

He opened the door, casting an amused glance over his shoulder. “I know.”

She climbed down after him, walking in his shadow as directed, but peered around his side to get a look at their destination.

Similar to the knight’s report, a modest group of people stood in the center of the road, wearing coarse hempen robes and wide straw traveling hats. Wherever they’d come from, it was a poor congregation - one that couldn’t even provide sigils of origin, the badges that pilgrims wore to denote their home temple, it seemed. All of their left lapels, where the sigils were supposed to be displayed, were bare.

Her steps faltered at this missing detail, and Felix took note with a subtle turn of his head.

The supplicants, who had been quiet and gathered closely together before, fanned out around an elderly man wearing robes of a slightly higher quality. They bowed their heads in the proper fashion and gave Church salutes in unison.

Felix stopped two arm-lengths away from this presumed leader and moved aside, allowing Byleth to face the group directly. He assumed a stance that appeared casual on the surface, arms crossed and shoulders relaxed, but the pose put his right hand within a strategically convenient distance of his swords.

“Hail, Your Grace, our Most Revered and Sacred Goddess,” the old man intoned, raising his gaze only to the level of her hands. “I am Brother Tomas. Eternal blessings on you for hearing our plea.”

Byleth returned the group’s salute, but didn’t recognize that name. It wasn’t so strange, she supposed. There were temples all over the continent. In a calm, even tone, she asked, “From whence do you come, Brother? And what answers do you seek?”

The deep wrinkles around Tomas’s eyes creased further. “We have traveled a long way. Our head priestess is bedridden with a terrible sickness, and though many doctors have visited her, none can determine a cure. What should we do?”

Her wary attitude softened with his explanation; their community had lost not only its spiritual leader, but its only practitioner of augury. _They must be so nervous, so uncertain of their futures_ , she thought, rolling up her sleeve and retrieving her augur spike.

“Please, Your Grace, allow me,” Tomas said, producing his own spike from beneath his lapels. Byleth accepted, presenting her arm, and he came forward a step and stretched out his hand. 

She got only a glimpse of the instrument he held - a darker metal than it should be, and curved slightly at the tip - before bright steel flashed at her side and a warm spray of blood splattered her face and torso.

Byleth jumped backward from it instinctively; Tomas’s dismembered arm fell to the dirt with a wet thump, and then Felix stepped in front of her, blade glistening red.

Before she could process what had happened, Tomas chuckled deeply, clutching the stump of his right elbow and backing out of range.

“What an observant guard dog,” he sneered, showing none of the deference he’d displayed earlier. He raised his remaining hand above his head and it glowed with a purplish haze that spread to envelop himself and those around him like a shroud.

It crackled and spit in the air like Byleth’s own holy magic, but it felt...wrong. The very sight and sound of it was offensive to some fundamental part of her, inspiring a familiar urge to run, to get as far away from it as possible.

But she couldn’t move; she couldn’t even speak; her jaw opened and closed uselessly, the skin of her neck burning like it was on fire. She clutched at it uselessly and her hands came away red with Tomas’s blood - and then they began to burn, as well.

“What’s he doing?” Felix asked, addressing Byleth but keeping his eyes on the strangers. When she didn’t answer, he spared a brief glance and then stiffened at once. “What’s wrong? Bel?”

She shook her head vehemently, pointing to Tomas and then raising her bloody hand and touching it to her neck. 

He seemed to understand; his eyes darkened and he advanced on Tomas, aiming for a vital strike this time, but his sword only sliced through air; droplets of blood flew from the blade in an arc, landing on empty ground.

In the space of a single breath, the entire group had vanished.

Byleth fell to one knee, exhausted in a manner she’d never before experienced. It was like she had swallowed pure, acrid ink, and it now filled her being entirely, pressing not only on her organs but on her spirit, encroaching on the inner sanctum that housed her divine flame.

“Bel!” Felix called, but his voice was distant. A hand gripped her shoulder and shook it; another pushed aside her veil. Cold, shaking fingers tried to wipe the blood from her neck, but she felt all of these things as though a layer of thick cotton separated her from them.

She grabbed hold of his collar with the last of her strength, grateful for its warmth amidst the icy darkness, and pitched forward.

\---Part 2: Felix---

Her forehead fell limply against him and he moved quickly to support her body, bringing his ear close to her face. She was still breathing; good.

There were no visible wounds on her. The only blood seemed to be Tomas’s, though from what he could gather from her gestures, that was the problem. He lifted the corner of his cape and cleaned the rest of it as well as he could, regulating his own breathing and heart rate in the process.

This was a battlefield injury - albeit a strange sort - and nothing more. The faithful at Garreg Mach would know what to do, and then Bel would be okay. She _would_.

“You,” he barked at one of his knights. “Secure the assailant’s arm and whatever it carried, then get me a horse.” The man sprang to action at once, and Felix turned to another. “You, ride to Fhirdiad and tell the Crown Prince and my father that there’s been an attack on the Holy Maiden.”

Like the first one, the knight he addressed spurred his horse on immediately.

“The rest of you stay and secure the area until I return,” he said, and the remaining knights saluted dutifully and took up guarding positions around the carriage and the blood splatter.

The first man he’d ordered rode up with a spare mount and a bundle of cloth. Felix gingerly lifted Bel into the saddle and climbed up after, clutching her firmly to his chest with one arm and operating the reins with the other.

“With me,” he told the man, and galloped off in the direction of the monastery.

\---

Lord Seteth’s face was pale as snow when he ran out to meet them.

“What _happened_?” He demanded, green hair disheveled from the wind and wild alarm in his eyes.

Felix hopped down from his horse, cradling Bel gently, but backed away when Seteth tried to take her from his arms. “Wait,” he said. “We were attacked. Something about the assailant’s blood - it hurt her, but not me or my men.”

Seteth hesitated, watching Felix suspiciously, then seemed to relent, though his lips remained pursed. “Come with me,” he snapped, and led them to one of the three massive towers that dotted the monastery’s perimeter.

“The blood? What about it?” Seteth asked as they jogged, pausing briefly to get a nearby acolyte’s attention and order in passing, “Alert the Archbishop and Sister Flayn; tell them to head to the infirmary immediately.”

Felix’s hold on Bel tightened. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of her gasping and struggling to speak; the raw panic on her face as she’d tried desperately to communicate what was wrong.

“I- don’t know,” he admitted, frustrated at his own ignorance. “There was a man. He said he was from the Church, but he wanted to harm her - I saw it in his eyes. I attacked him. His blood got on Be- on Lady Byleth,” he corrected.

They reached a room that looked to be the infirmary Seteth had mentioned. Beds lined the walls, separated by white curtains. Several young people in robes scattered at Seteth’s strict command, leaving the room empty.

“She looked like she was in pain,” Felix went on, laying Bel gently onto one of the beds. “But she bore no other wounds - only the blood. And then she collapsed.”

Seteth untied the veil from her face and placed a hand over her forehead. A pale blue light - one Felix had seen Bel use many times - manifested around it, spreading from his hand to her skin, traveling along her body like a lively flame.

“An ailment from contact with the blood,” Seteth said, shaking his head. “I have never heard of such a thing. Tell me _everything_ , in sequence.”

Felix complied, describing the strange encounter with as much detail as he could muster, and Seteth’s dire frown deepened over the course of it.

“We recovered these,” Felix said after he’d finished, motioning to the knight behind him, who handed over the bundle. Felix spread it out on an adjacent empty bed, showcasing Tomas’s severed forearm and the strange, twisted augur spike he’d carried.

The light faded from Seteth’s hand and Bel’s body, and he sighed. “You are right; she bears no physical wounds. She is stable, but whatever is wrong with her...it is beyond my capabilities. We will have to consult Lady Rhea,” he said, joining Felix on the other side of the bed to inspect the items he’d displayed - and recoiling from the limb.

It was understandable, Felix supposed, for someone who did not expect to be confronted with body parts - but the man seemed to overcome his revulsion to study the spike. Seteth held it like it might bite him: as far away from his face as possible, and utilizing only his thumb and index finger.

“This is no proper augur spike,” he said, holding it up to a nearby candle and turning it over. The firelight gleamed ominously on its sharp edges, glinting off its clawlike tip.

Felix tilted his head, seeing nothing different except the curve. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Augur spikes are made of silver or copper, or a mix of the two,” Seteth explained, sounding irritated. There was a strong possibility, Felix thought, that he should know this already. 

“These metals are sacred to the Goddess and prevent sickness. _This_ ,” Seteth said disdainfully, raising the hand that held the incorrect spike, “I could not guess what this is made of, but it is nothing sacred. We will have to consult a smith.”

The door slammed open; a small girl with long green hair, similar in hue to Bel’s but shorter and styled into two distinct curls, burst in, exclaiming, “Is Byleth all right?”

She froze when she saw Felix, turning around and hastily tying a veil around her head. _What is with these people and veils?_

“Her condition is not dire, Flayn; please control your volume,” Seteth said.

Flayn hastened to Bel’s side, hovering fretfully over the bed. “What happened, Father? Is there nothing we can do?”

“Until Rhea arrives, no.” Seteth sounded regretful, but then, as if on cue, the Archbishop appeared in the doorway.

Felix had seen her before on select holidays and royal functions, but always from afar, and she’d always borne the same air of aloof indifference, like the goings-on of the material world didn’t concern her in the least.

Now, though, she was as unkempt as Seteth, hurrying to stand beside Flayn and lay hands on Bel, summoning that familiar blue flame.

These people cared for her, he realized. Though the Church had essentially kidnapped her, there were people here that loved her.

“What happened?” Lady Rhea asked authoritatively, looking at Felix as though he had personally inflicted this mysterious injury.

He glanced to Seteth, who nodded and recounted the event, sparing Felix the task. 

When it was done, Rhea exhaled slowly, her holy power fading. “If there is any historical account of this, I have not read of it,” she said, drawing her hand across Bel’s forehead. “But she is in no immediate danger.” 

She turned back to Felix, her elaborate mantle of office rustling softly with the movement. “I apologize for my assumptions. It sounds as though you protected her well.”

He inclined his head awkwardly, unused to accepting praise. “So, she’s- Lady Byleth will be all right?” He asked, looking to Bel’s prone form on the bed. Despite being splattered with a stranger’s blood, she seemed at peace; maybe that was a product of the magic.

“Yes. I have assessed her physical and metaphysical states, and she is only sleeping,” Rhea said, clasping her hands together. “In light of these events, Lord Felix, I must ask you to conduct your combat training at the monastery. At least until we can determine the nature of this attack.”

Felix made a vague sound of affirmation, eyes never leaving the bed. “Sure,” he said, fingers curling at his sides. Even though it was inconvenient, and put him in contact with far too many Church people for his personal comfort, he found himself not only willing, but eager. In this moment - and in all moments thereafter, he thought, much to his own shock - he was pretty sure he’d do anything for Bel.


	13. Chapter 13

Byleth’s eyelids fell under the weight of pain and exhaustion, her face pressed into the front of Felix’s coat. An instant passed in darkness and then she landed, not with the impact she’d expected, but gently, as if she’d drifted down through water.

The sounds from the road - the knights’ thudding steps, Felix’s erratic breathing - faded into the whispers of a constant breeze that tickled her ears; similarly, where her nose had before been filled with the clashing scents of blood, leather, and sword oil, she now smelled only the familiar fragrance of holy incense, smoky and thick.

Her eyes opened onto a room of gray and brown stone that looked to have been carved by both time and a careful hand into the face of a cliff. The left wall was solid and naturally rough, while its opposite bore many circular openings that showed a deep, sunlit valley far below. 

This was not the road, nor the monastery, nor anywhere in Faerghus, she posited, fingers twitching involuntarily with the thought. She looked down at herself, finding not her training robes but a lightweight, elaborately decorated dress, and that she sat on a throne of carved jade. Its cool surface chilled her through her thin layers, counterbalanced by the warm, dry wind that blew incessantly through the holes in the wall.

The dress and the throne she recognized immediately; she’d seen them before, far beneath Garreg Mach in its labyrinthine catacombs. They were the last known possessions of the Goddess, painstakingly relocated by the only survivors of Her devastated kingdom: Zanado.

Byleth ran her hands - smaller, more slender than they should be - over the raised, swirling patterns on the throne, and knew who, and when, she was. She’d read about this phenomenon before, from the accounts of previous Holy Maidens: they described the cycle of reincarnation like a continuum, an unbroken thread of life that stretched from Sothis’s time to the present, and even beyond. Sometimes, in dire or extreme circumstances, they wrote of traveling along that thread and receiving visions of past - or in rare cases, future - vessels.

After reading these records as a child, Byleth liked to think of each Holy Maiden as a knot on a string, connected but distinct. She visualized their spiritual travels as a pluck on the string, and had often imagined herself bouncing along the knots, visiting all the women who had housed the Goddess before her.

But it seemed that Byleth had bounced all the way to the beginning; none of the vessels’ accounts had ever mentioned inhabiting Sothis Herself.

She stood from the throne, navy silk falling in voluminous waves about her legs, and went to the wall of holes. At the bottom of the valley - so distant that the buildings were mere splotches of lighter stone, the people a stream of slow-moving, indistinct dots - was Zanado, bustling with life and color. 

Byleth covered her mouth with her hand, abundant jewelry clinking at her wrist, overcome by a sudden rush of emotion that wasn’t her own, yet felt so familiar: loneliness. 

Her children inhabited the valley, living and loving. Thriving. Dying. And with each new generation, with the spread and fruition of their bloodlines, they grew farther and further from Her.

Even now, in distant lands She had never seen, wearing faces She did not recognize and speaking languages unknown, they traveled and propagated and settled and - changed. They waged the wars She had tried so hard to suppress; they suffered from famine, and plague, and negligence.

But not these ones, She thought, watching the people in the valley. They were safe. _By my might and my blood, I will keep them safe_.

She looked then to the sky, past the winged ones who could still assume their rightful forms, past the thin band that protected this world, honing in on a tiny pinprick of blue light nearly indistinguishable from the myriad lights around it, and Her loneliness intensified.

There was a crash outside the throne room; Byleth whirled, pressing her back to the holes, and a hulking shadow darkened the ambient green light of the doorway. A tall, broad figure stooped to enter, stringy clumps of white hair falling about their face-

And the string pulled taut. It tugged Byleth upward like a hooked fish on a line, out of Sothis, out of Zanado and - she suspected - outside time itself.

A wide gulf opened between Now and Then, spanning uncountable days over many lifetimes, propelling her forward through settings both recognizable and foreign. They zipped past her, a soundless parade of light and color, buffeting her body like a crosswind.

Finally she found herself surrounded by images of the Faerghus she knew; she was hovering above her own knot, and caught only a glimpse of the string as it went on in perpetuity before being flung back into her own body - but the fact that it _did_ go on, that the flame burned bright into the future, comforted her. It was, after all, Sothis’s dearest and most fervent wish.

\---

She awoke with a gasp, rising from her bed like she might take flight there and then. A soft hand pushed her back down, and an indistinct conversation ceased at once.

“Byleth-” That was Seteth’s voice, close by and filled with relief.

“Lady Byleth-” And that was Dimitri; why was _he_ here?

“It is all right, my dear one,” Rhea spoke soothingly by her head, drowning out the others’ surprised exclamations. “You are safe.” _Keep them safe_ , Sothis’s thoughts echoed.

Byleth’s eyes opened slowly and she winced away from the room’s bright lighting, much harsher than the dimness of the throne room. When her vision cleared, she recognized the sterile white interior of the monastery’s infirmary - and the faces of its many current occupants.

Ringed around her bed were not only Rhea and Seteth, but also Lord Rufus and Lord Rodrigue; and by their sides stood their heirs, Dimitri and Felix.

“How do you feel?” Seteth asked quietly, drawing near and inspecting her eyes and face. “Can you breathe well?”

Byleth raised a hand to her throat. The skin there was raw and sensitive, but aside from a dull ache when she inhaled, there seemed to be no lasting damage. 

“Yes,” she said, voice scratchy and weak. “I feel fine.”

 _I saw across the chasm of ages_ , she wanted to blurt, but knew that this was neither the time nor the place. Vague anxiety played on everyone’s expressions; they needed reassurance that their Holy Maiden was unharmed, not a wild tale about ancient Zanado.

Gently declining Rhea’s offer of assistance, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and folded her hands neatly in her lap, presenting - hopefully - an image of tranquility. “What happened after I fainted?”

Seteth’s face pinched. “Lord Felix carried you here. Despite our rules on such things,” he added in a distasteful mutter.

“Should I have left her in the dirt, then?” Felix asked sharply, not bothering to hide his own anger. Beside him, Rodrigue shifted as though he were about to speak, but then Rhea motioned for silence.

“Please,” Rhea said calmly. “We have been over this, Seteth. It was an emergency, and everyone acted accordingly.” She turned her head, the slightest hint of annoyance in her eyes. “But I _would_ advise Lord Felix to recall that he addresses Saint Cichol’s vessel.”

Felix looked away, scowling, but didn’t argue - the greatest concession Rhea could hope to receive, Byleth thought.

“You slept for a short time,” Rhea continued, coming to sit on the edge of Byleth’s bed and holding one of her hands. “We were just discussing the possible identity of the attacker. Lord Felix said that the blood harmed you; can you tell us anything more?”

Byleth subconsciously touched along the skin of her neck again, trying to piece together a description of what the blood had done to her. “It was suffocating. In- in all senses,” she said, remembering its constricting effects. “Not just my body, but my spirit.” She looked up at Rhea, then at Seteth. “Have you ever felt as though your holy powers were being smothered?”

Seteth and Rhea exchanged a brief, confused look.

“Smothered? No,” Seteth said, scrutinizing Byleth again like he might discover a new wound. “Are you able to summon your power now?”

She reached inward for the flame, igniting it in her palm - but it was smaller than what she’d called for and it faded quickly, leaving her oddly drained afterward.

“That is all you can muster?” Seteth asked with mounting concern, and Byleth nodded. He glanced to the side table, to the strange augur spike Tomas had wielded, then back to the rest of the group. 

“It seems we face an enemy that can directly suppress our magic and vanish at will,” he said, bringing a hand to his chin in thought. “In all my years, I have never encountered such abilities.”

“Nor have I,” Rodrigue said, frowning deeply. “And I mislike how close to Midwinter this has occurred.” He passed a wary eye over each person present. “Three rulers are about to congregate in one city, and someone is testing the protections of the Church.”

Rufus, who had been passively taking in all this information, snapped to attention at the mention of the ball. “We will heighten security around both the monastery and Midwinter itself,” he said decisively. “There’s no need to alert the Emperor or Duke Riegan to this little incident.”

All mouths went abruptly silent. Byleth thought that Felix’s jaw could have fallen to the floor for how low it hung, but Dimitri spoke first.

“ _Little incident_ -” he began heatedly, but then paused, lowering his voice to a more polite level, “Uncle, don’t you think they deserve to know?”

Felix tacked on caustically, “And should we really be hosting a dance when there are _assassins_ on the loose?”

“ _Felix_ ,” Rodrigue hissed, and his son bristled at the sole reprimand. “The Regent is right,” he said. “We cannot rule out the possibility that the attackers came from the Empire or the Alliance, as difficult as it may be to consider.”

Unease spread through the room like a fell wind; the Empire’s open hatred for the Church had already been weighing heavily on Byleth’s mind, and now she saw those same suspicions in Rhea and Seteth.

“And even if they did not, publicizing an attack on the Holy Maiden might only invite others to do the same - or worse - if they believe the Church to be vulnerable,” Rodrigue continued. “Your Highness, are you not of the opinion that the Empire’s acceptance of our invitation this year is odd?”

Dimitri shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Yes, I am, but-” he glanced briefly to Byleth, “-the Imperial Princess expressed an interest in meeting Lady Byleth. Need their reasons be any deeper than that?”

Rhea’s face remained neutral, but her grip on Byleth’s hand tightened.

“I, too, am reluctant to suspect any of our neighbors, but I believe that the wisest course of action is to act as if nothing is amiss. Midwinter can proceed as planned with an added layer of security. We may attribute this to necessity, since the Empire does not often attend,” Rodrigue concluded, watching for his liege’s reaction.

Rufus nodded emphatically. “Good, good, yes, whatever you need to do-”

“How do you intend to protect the Holy Maiden?” Rhea interjected, moving farther up the bed. She added in a sort of disappointed-motherly voice that sent a full body shiver through Byleth, “It pains me that you are more concerned about a social function than the vessel of your Goddess, Lord Regent.”

“That’s what I said,” Felix complained, and grunted in frustration when Rodrigue shushed him again.

Seteth took up Rhea’s other side, crossing his arms. “Indeed. She has been targeted by a group that has proven it can evade capture. What is your plan?”

Rufus cringed away like they’d struck him. “Archbishop, please,” he said in a placating tone, casting his gaze about the room for backup. “What if Dimitri- ah, but you can’t,” he said, shaking his head solemnly at his nephew. He turned again, a wide grin spreading across his face when he made it to Felix. “You!”

Felix stiffened, leaning away from the Regent’s pointed finger. “What?”

“You defended Lady Byleth today, yes? Are you confident you could do so again?” Rufus asked flippantly, as if he already knew the answer.

“Of course,” Felix snapped, looking insulted that he would even ask.

Instead of scolding his rudeness, Rufus just grinned wider. “Excellent! Then it’s settled,” he said, turning back to Rhea. “Felix here will escort Lady Byleth to Midwinter. They already have a rapport, and he’s seen the attackers’ methods. Perfect plan, wouldn’t you say?”

For the second time that day, Rufus’s words quieted all those around him. Felix, who had been glaring steadfastly, was now staring vaguely over the Regent’s shoulder, eyes glazed, like his entire being was somehow paused - and Byleth knew that her expression must be similar.

Rhea regarded Rufus evenly; only someone very close to her would be able to see that her earlier spark of irritation had returned. She then shifted her gaze to Felix, and finally down to Byleth. “Is this acceptable to you, dear one? If you do not feel safe, you need not force yourself-”

“It’s acceptable,” Byleth said quickly, before Rhea could talk herself out of it. Part of her was immeasurably giddy at the thought of attending the ball with Felix - while another, louder part dearly wished they’d had the opportunity to arrange it voluntarily.

“But, um,” she added, fighting to keep the heat out of her face, “only if it is also acceptable to him.”

All eyes, previously on Byleth to gauge her response, turned to Felix. Dimitri, in particular, looked incredulous and faintly disturbed at this turn of events.

“It, uh,” Felix said, covering the lower half of his face with one hand and turning away from the group. In a low voice, made lower by the barrier of his glove, he went on, “It- is.”

“Wonderful! Glad we got that worked out,” Rufus said, clapping his hands vigorously together. He promptly turned on his heel and barged out of the room, his voice growing fainter as he ordered someone farther down the hall, “Get my carriage ready.”

In the silence that followed, Rodrigue let out an extended, long-suffering sigh. “Ah...we will continue to investigate the possible origins of the attackers. Please let us know what you discover about- that,” he said, gesturing to Tomas’s augur spike. “For now, I need to make sure that the Regent returns to the city in a timely fashion. Excuse me, Lady Rhea, Lady Byleth, Lord Seteth.” 

After saluting each in turn, Rodrigue made his exit, quietly apologizing to the staff and clergy he encountered on his way out.

Felix and Dimitri both looked as though they’d swallowed something bitter, sharing an exasperated glance before turning back to the bed.

“Felix and I want to take a closer look at the scene of the attack,” Dimitri said, addressing Seteth and Rhea, “but if you need us for anything further…?”

Rhea smiled softly at the prince, clearly approving of his manners over his uncle’s. “No, Your Highness. We must consult our archives, and that is a task with which you, regrettably, cannot provide aid.” She patted Byleth’s hand. “Additionally, the Holy Maiden should rest.”

“Oh- of course,” Dimitri said, offering Byleth a hasty salute. “Recover swiftly, Your Grace. We _will_ discover your assailants’ whereabouts.”

Felix copied the salute stiffly, the tips of his ears red, and avoided looking directly at Byleth. “See you next week,” he mumbled, then made to follow Dimitri.

Seteth, who had been watching Byleth closely since Rufus’s sudden proposition, his brow furrowed as though he were solving complex calculations, cleared his throat.

“Lord Felix,” he called, and Felix froze in the doorway.

Byleth held her breath, tensing up; Rhea glanced down worriedly.

“You may return tomorrow to hold your lesson, if you wish,” Seteth said, scanning Felix’s rigid posture. “Lady Byleth’s safety is of utmost importance, especially now. Would you not agree?”

Felix looked back, half-turning to incline his head in Seteth’s direction. “I do, and I will. Thank you,” he added curtly. His eyes flicked to Byleth’s for a single, significant moment, and then he disappeared into the hall.

When their footsteps had faded, all three vessels relaxed somewhat. For Byleth, it was because she could now stop splitting her focus between acting properly - for the benefit of the nobles - and acting _naturally_ \- to conceal her complicated feelings not only from Felix, but from her surrogate parents. Seteth had her worried toward the end, but thankfully he now seemed just as relieved as she was to have the governing body of Faerghus out of their collective space.

He eyed one of the empty beds as though he would like nothing more than to sink down onto it, but then clicked his tongue and turned his back. “Rhea, I will meet you in the archives,” he said, lifting the twisted augur spike carefully into one of his pockets.

“Byleth,” he continued, voice quiet and stern. She couldn’t see his face, but she imagined it was just as hardened. “The drive to help others is admirable, but next time- do not act so foolishly.”

He was gone before she could retort; a petty, unworthy remark died on her lips. It was probably for the best, she thought, ashamed even though she hadn’t spoken.

Rhea hummed and stood, smoothing a hand down the back of Byleth’s hair. “He speaks thus only because he cares for you,” she said, tipping her protege’s chin upward. “I trust you can see your mistakes with clarity?”

The gently uttered admonishment stung just as deeply as Seteth’s direct one. Byleth swallowed it, and her defiant feelings, dutifully, and replied, “Yes. I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rufus: felix will take lady byleth to the dance, nbd
> 
> felix and byleth: *dial up modem sounds*


	14. Chapter 14

\---Part 1: Byleth---

Garreg Mach’s training hall, located partway up the academic tower, was smaller than the ones in the Knights’ Hall and the Fraldarius estate, but not for lack of resources; the monastery’s hall was mostly utilized by the upper clergy to hone their spiritual and arcane abilities, rather than physical.

The main space was a wooden room treated to resist flame, polished floor completely open to accommodate entire classes of priests as they attended their practical studies. Two washing chambers and a storage room attached to the inner wall, while the outer one consisted of moving panels not unlike the ones in Byleth’s wing. When they were folded aside, the hall flowed seamlessly into a terrace garden well-suited for introspection and meditation.

She’d arrived early this morning to do just that, swinging her legs off the edge of the wood flooring and letting her bare feet slide through the garden’s soft grass. The pale winter sun warmed her, chipping away at her dour mood.

_Your naivety nearly got you killed._

Seteth’s warning from breakfast rang out in her mind, undoing the small measure of progress she’d made toward forgetting it, and she heaved a sigh and kicked her feet faster through the grass. He and Rhea had been relentless in their well-intentioned lectures since yesterday’s incident, hounding Byleth about prudence and responsibility at the slightest opportunity.

She _understood_ that her judgment had been flawed. That she didn’t take the warning signs seriously enough. That, if Felix hadn’t acted so decisively, she might have come to greater harm. Rhea’s advice on the matter stuck with her in particular: _temper your kindness with wisdom_.

But _how_?

Byleth fell backward onto the sun-heated planks with a thin, disgruntled sound. _They_ were the ones who’d kept her isolated from other people for half of her life. How was she supposed to suddenly identify which ones were dangerous?

She scrubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, grateful for her upcoming training lesson. At least then she’d be able to put this guilt and frustration aside for a few hours and swing her sword free of criticism.

The door to the hall swung open and shut, and Felix’s voice echoed loudly in the silence, “You’re strong, but you lack experience.”

Byleth’s hopeful thoughts flattened back to negativity. She pushed her palms up into her hairline, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if it could survive a direct, sustained blast of fire.

“I’m quite done hearing people call me stupid, Felix, thank you,” she called out sarcastically, thoroughly demoralized, and began gathering the will to get up.

His boots clicked across the floor and then his face appeared in her field of vision; he leaned over her, looking half-amused, half-confused. “I said you were _inexperienced_. Now it’s simply a matter of gaining it. A weakness to conquer.” He held out a gloved hand, a hint of indignation creeping into his expression. “Who called you stupid?”

She blinked up at him, the haze of her fury dissipating in his straightforwardness. “Oh,” she said, reaching up to take his hand. He helped her to stand, careful to avoid stepping on her feet. “It’s not important. I shouldn’t have yelled,” she added sheepishly.

He let out a clipped, teasing laugh, making no attempt to let go of her even after she was steady. “Why not? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you angry.”

The sound pulled her lips into a fond smile; Goddess, it had only been a single day, but she’d missed this easy companionship, this comfortable atmosphere the two of them could generate so effortlessly when they were alone.

“Uh,” Sylvain drawled on the other side of the room. Byleth’s head snapped to the side; he and Ingrid were just inside the door, arms full of training weapons, wearing twin masks of astonishment.

“We can come back later,” Sylvain said, setting the equipment down but never averting his eyes, as if the scene before him might disappear if he did. “You know, if you guys are-” his mouth formed the beginnings of several different sounds before he settled on, “-busy.”

Byleth followed his gaze down to where her hand was still joined to Felix’s, cradled lightly in his palm, and took it back at the speed of shame, folding her arms inside her wide sleeves for good measure. She looked up, worried she’d embarrassed Felix in front of his friends, but the vexation on his face was aimed entirely in one direction.

He squinted at Sylvain and tilted his head, some sort of unspoken challenge passing between them, then turned back to Byleth. 

“Like I said, you lack experience. Until the b-” he paused, closing his eyes momentarily and gritting his teeth. “For the next few weeks, we’ll focus on reading intentions through body language.” 

His eyes opened again, softer, and the edge was gone from his voice as he concluded, “So that next time someone wants to hurt you, you’ll know. Even if I’m not there.”

Byleth wanted to take his hand again, to draw closer to the source of that comfort and warmth, but instead she just smiled and nodded toward the door. “So that’s why they’re here?”

“Indeed.” Felix gestured to the weapons on the floor and the ones in a still-petrified Ingrid’s arms. “You need to see a wide range of combatants, styles, and feinting maneuvers. Ingrid will be your first opponent, if she can _manage it_ ,” he said, raising his voice slightly at the end. “Her fighting is the most...honest.”

The subtle taunt seemed to break Ingrid out of whatever spell she’d been under; she handed everything but a wooden lance and sword to Sylvain, who took the weapons with a low chuckle, and strode across the room.

“I don’t like what you implied there, Felix,” she said mock-sweetly, but she was all decorum when she offered the training blade to Byleth. “It’d be an honor to spar with you, Your Grace, if you accept.”

 _Oh, proper sparring rules_ , Byleth thought, taking the sword. “I do accept,” she said, stepping back a few paces and performing a Faerghus weapon salute. 

After repositioning herself, Ingrid returned it. “To first hit?” She suggested, leveling her lance.

Byleth’s stance faltered. She and Felix had always fought until subdual or disarmament, but she didn’t want to be rude, so she acquiesced with a nod. 

Felix joined Sylvain next to the door, shooting Byleth a narrow-eyed smirk on his way. “Don’t underestimate your foe, Ingrid,” he advised, looking far too entertained for the situation.

A handful of seconds passed and Ingrid remained in a defensive pose, her deep green eyes attentive to every small change in Byleth’s bearing. This caught Byleth off-guard; on some level, she supposed, she’d been expecting all of the knights to fight aggressively like Felix and her father.

And so she went in first, using those risky tactics her new instructor preferred, and swung her sword in an exploratory arc to see how her opponent would respond. Ingrid knocked it away with the haft of her spear but made no move to follow up; instead she fell back, changing her grip and forcing Byleth out of her space with a sweep.

But Byleth noticed that Ingrid kept the end of her weapon well away from any real contact, even though her reach had clearly allowed for an answering blow.

Irritated, Byleth ducked around her to try a different angle and was met with the same deflection-and-retreat maneuver as before, and then she was certain: Ingrid wasn’t fighting seriously.

That conclusion was the final inch of oil before the fire, the last beam holding back all of her pent up resentment since yesterday - and probably _before_ yesterday, if she was being honest. A swell of helpless, spluttering frustration tore from her throat in a battle cry; she slammed the palm of her free hand onto the floor and channeled her power, tapping her inner wellspring with a directionless vengeance.

 _I’ll show you_ , she thought, and a column of white flame roared up from the ground in front of Ingrid, consuming the end of her lance and colliding with the ceiling, flattening and spreading along the wood.

For an instant, Byleth basked in the sweltering glow of the blaze, gratification burning just as brightly in the center of her bitterness - but then Ingrid yelped and jumped backward, clutching the singed haft of her weapon, and Byleth returned to the present.

She closed off the flow of her magic, and her wrath died down along with the fire, leaving not only circular scorch marks on the floor and the ceiling, but also a profound lightness in her heart, as though a dense cloud had dissipated. She stood up slowly, waiting for Ingrid to say something - anything - but her opponent was silent, eyes locked to her ruined spear.

A look to the side showed her much the same thing; Sylvain had a fist pressed to his chin, wide-eyed and statuesque, looking back and forth between Byleth and the sooty black remnants of her magic.

“Disarmed,” Felix declared, wearing a wide, intrigued grin.

Ingrid raised her eyes, full of wonder, to Byleth. “Agreed,” she said vaguely, lowering her arms. “I yield, Your Grace.”

Byleth bowed shallowly to accept it. “Um, are you okay?” She asked, shifting her weight awkwardly between her feet. “I didn’t mean to get so, uh…” 

“Heated?” Sylvain suggested with a self-satisfied laugh. Felix let out a prolonged, disgusted groan.

Ingrid, ignoring her friends’ comments, approached Byleth with an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “But - wow, I’ve never seen holy magic up close before.” She tossed over her shoulder at Felix, “Did you know she could do that?” 

“Sure, but not like _that_ ,” he said, pointing to the scorch marks.

Byleth exhaled forcefully, grimacing up at the ceiling. “Neither did I,” she muttered, wondering how long it would take the staff to replace all of these boards. She could practically already hear Seteth’s lecture; another chance to drill home the importance of _responsibility_.

“Can you do it again?” Felix asked, and Byleth could’ve sworn he was excited at the prospect - possibly as excited as she, herself, was to have attained a new rung of mastery over her holy power.

She cut him a knowing glance. “Maybe. But the hall might not survive.”

Felix laughed, shaking his head. “Let it burn, then, and tell the Archbishop to solicit my father for the damages.” He put a hand on Sylvain’s back and gave him a hearty shove forward. “Sylvain’s next. Try to singe that insufferable look off his face.”

“Whoa!” Sylvain stumbled, grinning, into the center of the room, using the butt of his lance to balance himself. “Guess it’s my turn. Get ready, Lady Byleth - _I_ won’t go easy on you,” he emphasized with a sideways look at Ingrid; she scowled back at him.

“To mortal strike?” He asked, sinking into a low stance.

Byleth moved to a less charred starting position and performed an eager weapon salute, which Sylvain returned with a smirk. “To mortal strike,” she agreed, and advanced without further warning, pushing off the floor in the same move Felix had first used on her at the lake.

Sylvain blocked her blade at the edge of his reach, hitting it aside. “You’re a quick study,” he commented, bringing his lance up to jab at her midsection and forcing her to jump backward. “But I’ve been fighting Felix since we were kids.”

The easy way his spear kept her at bay reminded her of Jeralt, of all the countless times his distinctive weapon had knocked her effortlessly to the ground. Back then, Byleth had been too physically small, too lacking in strategic knowledge, to do much about it - but now she had many more options.

She skirted around him, keeping clear of his spear’s tip, testing his defenses with small lunges and withdrawals. All the while she probed her inner flame, gauging the amount she’d burned in her outburst and how much she had left. 

Usually, she expelled her magic in small gouts, and only recently for combat. But even if her estimations were off by a significant margin, she should have the strength required for another blast. Sylvain just had to give her an opening.

She didn’t have to wait long. He grew steadily more impulsive and inefficient with his blocks, giving her the impression that he wasn’t content to stay on the defensive forever. Byleth already felt that she had the advantage of patience over Felix; the same seemed to be true for at least one of his friends.

Eventually he lunged, going for a leg sweep; she used the opportunity to hop the lance and then grab it with her off hand, sparking her power to life - but this maneuver put her in close proximity to Sylvain, and before she could incinerate his weapon, he leaned in close to her ear.

“If I hadn’t spoken up earlier,” he murmured, so low that only she could hear it, “would you have kissed him?”

Byleth reared back, the threads of her magic dissipating as a very different kind of heat rushed to her face. Sylvain’s teasing leer sharpened; he wrenched the lance from her hand and brought it behind her knees, buckling them with a decisive swing.

She hit the ground with a dull thud that knocked the breath from her lungs, and when she looked up again, Sylvain had the tip of his spear held to her neck.

“Mortal strike,” he said simply, tapping the weapon against her flushed skin. 

Byleth glared up at him from the floor. _Of all the underhanded_ -

“I yield,” she spat, rising and brushing off her knees. “That wasn’t fair.”

He looped a friendly arm around her shoulder, walking them both back toward the pile of weapons and laughing the whole way. “Aw, come on, that’s what this training’s all about, right?” His eyes glittered mischievously. “Discerning _intentions_?”

Byleth wriggled out of his grasp, annoyance skittering along her skin. 

“He’s right,” Felix said, though his mouth twisted like the admission pained him. “His fighting style is irritating, but you should still learn how to read it.” He tracked Byleth’s receding blush, frowning. “What did he say?”

She gripped her training blade in both hands, floundering for an answer, but Sylvain rescued her.

“I asked who her partner was for Midwinter,” he lied, voice unsettlingly natural. His cadence and delivery matched perfectly with his normal behavior. If Byleth hadn’t heard his actual question, she would have easily believed it.

“Didn’t get an answer, though,” Sylvain went on, tilting his head. “Maybe now?”

Her hold on the sword tightened; she looked to Felix, mildly panicked, and his equally shocked expression cast a stone into her stomach. He hadn’t told them. Did he not want anyone to know?

Did he regret his decision?

Sylvain glanced back and forth between them, genuine, delighted surprise blooming on his face. “No way,” he said, mostly to himself. “Seriously?”

Byleth pursed her lips, afraid that anything she said would only incriminate her further, and winced away from his probing gaze. Meanwhile, Felix looked to be in the midst of a fight or flight response - and she was pretty sure which one he would pick, if pushed.

“What?” Ingrid asked, rejoining the group with a fresh training lance.

Sylvain rounded on her with a roguish smile. “ _Ingrid_ , these two are going to Midwinter-”

“The- the Regent ordered it!” Felix asserted loudly, cutting off the rest of Sylvain’s sentence. His knuckles were white where he grasped the hilt of his sword, and a furious red stained his cheeks.

Ingrid and Sylvain, perhaps used to this sort of behavior, barely recoiled from the exclamation. Instead Sylvain’s glee seemed to multiply; his shoulders trembled with restrained laughter.

“Oh, because of the attack?” Ingrid asked matter-of-factly. “That makes sense. You’ve seen the enemies’ faces.”

Byleth barely heard her; she was too busy watching Felix’s angry, avoidant reaction to the topic of the ball. Her doubts, her disappointment, only increased when he spotted her and immediately averted his eyes, clenching his jaw in a way that betrayed his discomfort.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “It makes sense.” He adjusted his grip on his training sword, jerking his head toward the center of the room. “Come on, Bel. My turn.”

\---Part 2: Ingrid---

Ingrid watched Felix stalk to his starting position, Lady Byleth following uncertainly behind, and she could almost hear the gears turning in her own head. Felix had never been adept at concealing his opinions or feelings, and the way he looked at the Holy Maiden - the way he talked to her-

Well, Ingrid was beginning to suspect that the glimpse of emotion she’d seen from him at the party was only a small part of something far more complex.

“Did you hear what he called her?” She asked quietly, angling her head toward Sylvain but keeping her eyes on the other two. Unsurprisingly, Felix didn’t bother sticking to knightly sparring etiquette; a side thought in her mind, running parallel to the larger matter at hand, worried he might instill such habits in his student.

Lady Byleth didn’t seem to mind, though; she met him eagerly, and the sharp crack of their wooden swords colliding was the only indication of the match’s start.

“Mhm,” Sylvain confirmed, leaning in to keep their conversation private. “What do you think _she_ calls _him_ , though? ‘Fe?’”

Ingrid shifted her attention to Sylvain, annoyed, and jumped a little to see his gaze was already on her. “This is serious,” she hissed, bumping their shoulders together. “I had no idea they were so-” she looked back to the fight, searching for the right descriptors but coming up empty.

Felix and Lady Byleth wore matching, competitive smiles, striking at each other with unrestrained enthusiasm. They moved fluidly, intuitively, both looking more comfortable now than they had at any other point during the day; Ingrid was fairly certain that part of the ceiling could collapse and they would simply move around it, so intent were they on one another.

“It’s like a- conversation,” she observed, trying to work out what was so captivating about it. “Or a dance.”

Sylvain bobbed his head. “That’s - yeah, you nailed it,” he said, chuckling. “Honestly, I’m a little jealous.”

She rolled her eyes, intending to bite out a sarcastic response, but couldn’t mock him. For the longest time - _ten years_ , she realized with an aching throb in her chest - she’d yearned for a connection like the one they were witnessing: something genuine. Something open.

And she knew that Sylvain felt the same way. They all did: herself, Felix, Sylvain, and Dimitri. If someone had asked her even a year prior which one of them would find it first, though, she _never_ would have guessed this particular outcome.

“Me, too,” she confessed, sneaking a glance at Sylvain.

He looked down, mouth pulling into an easy smirk, but the derision he’d surely been about to spout died in much the same manner as her own. Whatever he saw on her face, it stopped him in his tracks; he let out a breathy, nervous laugh, and backed up a step.

And then the center of the room exploded into another pillar of light and flame. The energy from the blast hit Ingrid like a wall of superheated wind, blowing her hair back and nearly knocking her off-balance. The jagged, broken blade of a training sword zipped past her head and sunk into the wall between her and Sylvain, vibrating in place for a moment after the impact.

They turned in tandem to the source of the detonation, finding Lady Byleth poised triumphantly over a larger blackened area than before - and on the other side, prone, grinning fiercely and clutching the smoking, shattered hilt of his weapon, was Felix.

“I yield,” he all but growled, accepting Lady Byleth’s hand when she offered it. A stray bit of wood must have grazed his cheek, because a thin rivulet of blood dripped down his face, following the path of his jaw.

Lady Byleth’s victorious smile vanished. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said softly, bringing a hand to his face; surprisingly, Felix allowed the contact. A wispy, bluish glow emanated from her hand and the place she’d touched him - and when she pulled it away, the wound was gone. 

_Sothis’s healing flame_ , Ingrid thought, wondering if Felix even knew its significance. Probably not. The two remained standing there, lost in another private moment, and Ingrid felt a powerful headache coming on.

“Goddess, this painful to watch,” she deadpanned. “We have to do something.”

Beside her, Sylvain hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I’m on it.”

\---Part 3: Byleth---

The archives had always unnerved her. They housed the Church’s oldest, most important documents, and so they were hidden away beneath the main temple, their entrance a closely guarded secret of the bishops and vessels.

Because of the extreme age of their contents, the archives were kept in permanent darkness. Anyone who wished to peruse the shelves did so under the heatless light of their own holy power, and nothing else. This produced the - eerie, in Byleth’s opinion - effect of dim, interspersed blue flames amidst the pitch black environment; a procession of ghosts in the night.

She traveled this ethereal pathway now, passing between darkened rows with a narrow, diffused ring of magical light to guide her. She was supposed to have met Seteth here almost an hour ago to search for clues about her attackers, but she’d lost track of time during combat training. Rematches with Felix were just too addictive, she thought, and the fresh recollection of her single victory brought a smile to her lips, even if the subsequent memory of his reluctance about the ball tinged it with bitterness.

“Byleth,” Seteth’s voice echoed in the cavernous room, sour and disappointed. “You are late.” His frame ignited in a pale blue outline at the end of the inter-shelf corridor, illuminating the desk at which he sat and the pile of ancient books at his elbow.

She flinched at his tone and sat on the opposite side of the desk, exhibiting a properly apologetic expression. “Forgive me,” she demurred in an attempt to abort the inevitable lecture. “Lord Felix is teaching me to read others’ intentions, and our lesson went overlong.”

 _There_ , she thought. _Seteth should approve of a reason like that_.

But his face, cast in stark, blocky shadow by their combined powers, remained stony. He set one of the tomes before her; a thin cloud of dust billowed up from its cover.

“Lord Felix,” he said, pronouncing each syllable distinctly to convey his displeasure, “regards you with too much familiarity, I think.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, he went on, “Do you recall what I said to you before Founding Day?”

Byleth shrank in her chair, shaking her head. It wasn’t a lie; he’d said a great many things to her before Founding Day, and on almost every day, otherwise.

“The Kingdom’s nobility are not there to be your _friends_. In the future, your relationships with them will be purely political, and they will duly respect and defer to you as their Archbishop.” Seteth maintained eye contact the entire time he spoke, ensuring that his student heard every word.

“It may be hard to hear, but your role _will_ necessitate a certain professional distance. Any-” he paused, frowning, “- _feelings_ you foster now will only hinder your position later. Do you understand?”

Despite the dry chill of the archives, a bead of sweat trickled down the back of Byleth’s neck. She nodded slowly, afraid of what would come out if she spoke; something needlessly defiant, judging from the flame in her heart. How could friendship possibly impede the duties of the Archbishop?

“I am not sure that you do,” Seteth murmured, eyes softening by degrees. “But for now we have an important task.” He gingerly opened one of the books and gestured for her to do the same. “We will speak of this again another time.”

She suppressed a sigh of relief and lifted the cover of her own book, highly doubtful that the identities of yesterday’s mysterious assailants would be hiding somewhere inside the sixth vessel of Saint Macuil’s dusty old memoirs, but it was much preferable to listening to how isolation would make her a better leader.

And if her right hand, concealed beneath the desk, clenched and unclenched periodically with the oft-surfacing memory of gliding along Felix’s smooth cheek, that was her secret, and hers only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seteth when he sees the state of the training hall, softly but with feeling: what the fuck
> 
> (also: byleth casts bolganone!)


	15. Chapter 15

\---Part 1: Byleth---

Byleth stumbled, cursing and grabbing onto Seteth’s arm to steady herself. She exhaled forcefully and pushed her hair out of her face, going back over the part she’d botched; how could complex sword forms come so naturally, and yet the tiny, accurate steps of the Adrestian Minuet eluded her?

“Again from the half-circle orbit,” Seteth directed, resetting their positions. “Take care, Byleth. You will be crossing over with Lord Claude frequently when switching partners between His Highness and Lady Edelgard. A collision during the opening dance would be most unfortunate.”

She nodded curtly, muttering, “Yeah, no pressure,” as they began the routine again.

Flayn, perched on the edge of Byleth’s dining table and holding Seteth’s record book in one hand, made a small sound of excitement. “Oh, I have a good one,” she said, clearing her throat and enunciating, “Who is the Empire’s Minister of the Interior, and what function does he serve?”

Without missing a beat, Byleth answered, “Count Hevring. He handles domestic finance and-” she stalled, staring down at her feet during the most complicated part of the partner-swap, then finished, “-judicial matters.”

“Correct!” Flayn declared, raising her quill in celebration. “Let us see, I should find something more difficult.” She flipped determinedly through the pages of the book. “Here we are. Who currently holds the least influence among the Ministers?”

Byleth squinted down at the floor, splitting her focus between the dance and her latest history lecture. “Uh, the Minister of Religion, because House Hresvelg is trying to oust the Church’s presence from the country. Varley?”

“ _ Count _ Varley,” Flayn said, grinning. “And who has the most influence?”

In passing, Byleth shot her friend an amused, pointed stare. “That would be Duke Aegir, the Prime Minister,” she said, then added teasingly, “I wonder what prompted such a question?”

“What, indeed?” Flayn lilted, hiding playfully behind the book. “Goodness, Father, do you think Uncle will speak to you?”

Byleth watched Seteth eagerly for his reply; he rarely spoke about his life before becoming a vessel, and since Flayn had been only six years old at the time of their joint transformation, she couldn’t remember much about her original family, either.

“I can only hope that he will not,” Seteth said flatly, leading Byleth in a graceful twirl and commenting, “Ah, that was perfect. Let us try it once more.”

Flayn pouted, shoulders drooping. “They are within our reach for the first time since...everything,” she said in a small voice. “You truly have no desire to know how Uncle is doing? Or Ferdinand?”

Her mournful tone gave Seteth pause; he stopped the dance, looking to her with a frustrated sigh. “Flayn,” he said, low and plaintive, “we have discussed this many, many times.”

Byleth bit the inside of her cheek to hold in an interjection. She knew precisely when the topic was discussed between the two, because it always preceded a morose and defeated Flayn the next morning at breakfast.

“Divine vessels cast off their family names and inheritances. That is how it must be,” he insisted, placing a placating hand on her arm. 

But Flayn was not dissuaded. “Byleth gets to see her father often,” she complained, fixing Seteth with a tempestuous glare. “It seems to me that one may ‘cast off their inheritances’ while still  _ speaking _ with their families.”

He took a deep breath, looking to Byleth like this was _ her  _ fault, somehow, then turned back to his daughter. “If House Aegir belonged to the Kingdom, it would be- easier,” he admitted reluctantly. “But, considering our current relationship with the Empire, it is best that certain lines are left uncrossed.”

Byleth, hidden from her teacher’s sight, was free to purse her lips doubtfully without fear of reprimand. She’d only been taught the surface layers of the conflicts - with a nebulous promise from Rhea to divulge the rest ‘later’ - but, as far as she could tell, it boiled down to an impasse: 

The Empire believed that holy magic was too powerful to be contained within a single institution, and should be accessible to anyone regardless of nationality or religion. The Church, in turn, insisted that  _ because _ it was so powerful, it must be controlled and distributed only to those both faithful and wise enough to wield it responsibly.

According to Seteth, there were also multitudes of other, lesser grievances which had cropped up in the intervening years and deepened the rift between them. Though he never said it, Byleth strongly suspected that his and Flayn’s transformations, and subsequent absorbal into the Church, were some of those grievances; proverbial salt in House Hresvelg’s wound.

A knock at the door spared Seteth from any further protests.

“Father Seteth,” called the high-pitched voice of an acolyte messenger, “there is a visitor at the front gate for Sister Flayn. I informed him that she was unavailable, Father, but-” the acolyte’s voice rose another, uncertain octave, “he won’t- leave.”

Seteth, already incensed at the interruption, scowled at the mention of the visitor’s gender. He made it to the door in three angry strides and tore it open, earning a squeak from the messenger. “Who is this man? From where does he come?”

The poor young boy quaked in place, stammering, “He- he said he arrived in the city this morning. With the Emperor’s caravan. His name is, um-”

“Ferdinand?” Flayn asked excitedly, securing her veil and hurrying to the door.

“Yes,” the acolyte confirmed, relaxing somewhat when his attention shifted to Flayn instead, “that was it! Ferdinand von Aegir.”

Flayn ran off without another word, ignoring Seteth’s strangled request to wait. In his indignant haste to follow her, he forgot to dismiss the poor messenger, who was left standing in the hall and staring blankly ahead.

Byleth tied on her veil and took pity on the boy. “Thank you,” she said gently, stepping into the hall and closing the door to her rooms behind her. “You may go.”

The acolyte saluted and bowed deeply, muttering his thanks as he scurried to his next assignment.

Now alone in the hallway, Byleth found herself with a dilemma. Seteth hadn’t explicitly ended their lesson - but neither had he forbidden her from joining them. She  _ could  _ go back into her room and memorize details about foreign nobility-

_ Or _ , she could go straight to a source, which happened to be present at this very moment. If she was industrious enough, she was sure she could spin this to Seteth in an academic light. And if she was fast enough, she reasoned, then at no point could she even be considered unattended. 

Path set, Byleth lifted the skirts of her robes and descended the tower stairs as quickly as propriety would allow. Perhaps thanks to her enhanced training schedule, she came upon Seteth in the last third of the journey; he still maintained a reasonable pace, but his speed had slowed considerably from the initial, panicked burst of energy he’d exhibited at the top.

“Byleth,” he said, attempting to conceal his moderate fatigue - to no avail. Between heavy breaths, he mandated, “Go- go and ensure that she- that Flayn-”

“Make sure that she’s safe and doesn’t do anything to embarrass the Church, right?” Byleth asked, too impatient to wait for him to catch his breath. Seteth nodded emphatically; he was so predictable, she thought.

“I will,” she said, skipping ahead, and called back over her shoulder, “Take your time!”

As she passed out of hearing distance, she caught wheezing, broken strains of complaints from farther up the stairs, “My nephew - an  _ idiot _ -”

Since the ground floor was more densely populated than the stairs and the upper landings, Byleth slowed to a dignified walk, subtly craning her neck to catch sight of Flayn. She found her quarry near the exit, pressed against the inner wall and pale as a ghost.

Byleth quirked an eyebrow and looked past her to where a pair of well-dressed gentlemen were strolling leisurely down the main path toward the temple. Even at this distance, the style and colors of their clothing were distinctly Adrestian, utilizing lightweight fabric and vibrant dyes.

“Is that…?” She wondered, squinting to discern more details. She was fairly sure that the one in front, who had long, sunset-orange hair and an ornate sword of office at his belt, was Duke Aegir’s son, Ferdinand. But the tall, dark-haired man behind him didn’t wear any obvious symbols of station and was dressed in all black; maybe a servant?

“I  _ am _ going to see him,” Flayn stated in answer to a question Byleth hadn’t asked. Her small hands clenched into fists, but the determination in her voice clashed with the wobble in her chin. She looked up, and that brief bit of eye contact, even through two layers of veils, was enough to break her.

“Oh, Byleth,” she sobbed quietly, cognizant of the clergymen and women that passed by her hiding spot. “What if he does not recognize me? What if he thinks ill of the Church, or of us?” She bit her lip, then continued, “Perhaps I should not see him-”

“Flayn,” Byleth urged, taking her friend’s hand and entwining their arms. “If he thought ill of you, would he have spent his first hours in Fhirdiad coming to visit?” 

She wanted to add that even those from the Empire must already know what divine vessels look like, but she also had a very recent example of how a stubborn individual could, in fact, avoid such common knowledge for a number of years - and so she kept silent on that front.

“I- I suppose not,” Flayn relented, tentative hope in her eyes as she let Byleth pull her off of the wall. “Will you come with me?”

Byleth smiled softly. “Of course,” she said, and led them onto the path, approaching the two men from behind. A situation like this - meeting foreign dignitaries for the first time, unattended by either Seteth or Rhea - might have frightened her under normal circumstances, but Flayn needed her to be strong; and so she was.

“-truly a marvelous feat of woodworking for the architects of the time,” Ferdinand was saying as they neared, oblivious to their presence and gesticulating at the temple. “A collaboration between King Loog and Emperor Klaus II, they say- oh, forgive me, Hubert, am I  _ boring _ you?” He asked, resting a testy hand on his hip.

The other man replied dryly, “The only  _ marvel _ here is your situational awareness.” With an unsubtle flick of his wrist in Byleth’s direction, he went on, “It seems our hosts have arrived.”

The two men turned around; Ferdinand stiffened and looked as though he’d just barely held in a yelp, fumbling to straighten his posture and ascot.

After getting a closer look at his companion, and hearing the familiar, casual way in which he spoke to Ferdinand, Byleth realized why he wore no obvious indicators of title;  _ his _ particular role in the Empire was defined by their absence.

“Marquis Vestra. Lord Ferdinand,” she said, inclining her head respectfully. “Welcome to Garreg Mach. I understand you have come to call on Sister Flayn?”

Flayn shrunk against her side; at the same time, Byleth positioned herself slightly in front, as if to protect her friend from a negative reaction, even though neither of the visitors had shown any signs of such. There was just something about Marquis Vestra’s narrow, calculating eyes that made her want to grab Flayn and run.

“My dear cousin!” Ferdinand exclaimed, stepping closer to Flayn. He peered to one side of her, then the other, teasing, “That  _ is  _ you in there, is it not?”

His light tone drew a giggle out of Flayn, who bravely disengaged herself from the safety of Byleth’s arm. “Of course it is me- oh,” she said, withdrawing when he moved to pull her into a hug, “you may not touch me.”

Ferdinand’s bright orange eyes went moon-wide at her warning. “Ah, the Church’s rules. Please excuse me - how could I have forgotten?”

Beside him, Marquis Vestra commented airily, “How, indeed, when I mentioned them in the carriage not twenty minutes ago?”

Deflating somewhat at the slight, yet still energetic and smiling, Ferdinand turned to Byleth. “Thank you for greeting us personally, Your Grace. Would it be permissible for the four of us to take tea together?”

Byleth cut a glance to the residential tower; there was still no sign of Seteth. He hadn’t been that far behind her, she thought nervously, and with it came another notion: perhaps he’d stayed back on purpose. Perhaps this was a test. She wouldn’t put it past him - and he’d already stated his aversion to conversing with anyone from House Aegir.

With this new possibility in mind, she steeled herself.

“I am afraid that, since Sister Flayn has not yet been Inducted, it is quite impossible to sit with her behind closed doors,” Byleth said, dredging up the rules milliseconds before she spoke. “We could, however, take a walk around the monastery grounds, if that is agreeable.”

The weather was far too cold for leisurely walking, she knew, but it was the first thing that had come to mind. She looked over their visitors again, bound up especially tightly for the harsh winter - so different from the temperate climes of the Empire - and regretted speaking immediately.

But Ferdinand beamed at the suggestion. “Certainly! I would never turn down a brisk stroll in good company. After you, Cousin,” he said, gesturing to the dirt path that ran the perimeter of the grounds. Flayn went happily ahead and the two set off, leaving Byleth with a dour-looking partner.

“I must remain here to accompany Sister Flayn,” she said, conjuring up a diplomatic smile. “But I can arrange indoor hospitality for you, if you wish, Minister.”

Marquis Vestra’s sharp green eyes slid from Ferdinand to Byleth, and his mouth pulled into a thin, vaguely upturned line. “No, thank you. I must also stay and watch, and I expect the both of us do so under quite similar directions.” He bowed his head in a slight show of deference, then started down the path. 

Byleth reluctantly joined him, pushing through a heavy uneasiness that grew denser the closer she got to his side. 

“And please, Lady Byleth, do call me Hubert,” he continued, either unaware of or uncaring toward her discomfort. “The two of us will be communicating often in the future; let us foster a friendship.”

Though his tone - always on the verge of taunting, yet just polite enough to pass without remark - disquieted her, she was aware that he spoke the truth. As the Minister of the Imperial Household, all of the Church’s correspondence with the Emperor needed to first pass through him.

“Very well, if that is your wish,” Byleth said, folding her hands in front of her. “I heard news of your father; I am sorry you were called out of the country so soon, with such little time to grieve.”

Hubert didn’t answer right away. Strings of incoherent, merry chatter drifted back from Flayn and Ferdinand, highlighting this comparatively dark atmosphere.

“I appreciate your condolences,” he finally said, but his words were in stark contrast to the wolfish, amused smirk on his face. “Tell me, Your Grace: are you still in contact with your own parents?”

Byleth frowned at the sudden, odd question, but after a moment of introspection, she supposed he could be dealing with his loss in peculiar ways. “With my father, yes, on occasion.”

“But not your mother, or any other family?” Hubert tilted his head down like he was trying to get a better look at her face through the veil. Byleth leaned away, ruffled at the action; he, self-labeled as familiar with Church rules, should know not to do such things. “Grandparents? Cousins?”

She took a deep breath and swallowed her mounting unrest. “My mother is no longer with us, and I have no other blood relatives,” she said, deciding to draw the curtain on this deeply personal line of questioning. “Might we discuss something more pleasant?”

Hubert’s answering smile, lean and gratified, would have fit a joke much better than a request. He dipped his chin civilly. “Of course, of course. Forgive my probing; such details are not commonly known in the Empire.” 

He returned to his own personal space and some of that strange pressure lifted from Byleth’s shoulders. “As I am sure you can imagine, present relations do not allow for the freest exchange of information.”

She nodded, reminded of her own sparse education on the subject of the Empire and its workings. Seteth had always been resistant to discussing anything deeper than geography or history, and Rhea, when questioned, would only spout something about ‘heathens’ and political strife.

“I am aware,” she said, and then, so as not to put the burden of conversation entirely on her guest, “How are you finding Fhirdiad?”

As if to accentuate her question, a frigid wind blew in from behind, fluttering the hem of her heavy robe and the edges of Hubert’s long cloak; he stoically suppressed a full-body shiver, but ahead of them, Ferdinand complained loudly of its effects.

“Nigh uninhabitable,” Hubert said flatly, and despite the previously uncomfortable tone of their conversation, Byleth wanted to laugh. She didn’t, of course, in keeping with the behavioral standards of her role - but she wanted to.

“Though I assume the cold is no obstacle for  _ you _ ,” he went on, “‘ _ O true bearer of the Goddess’s flame _ .’”

Byleth blinked, startled. “You know the scriptures?”

“I have studied them academically, yes,” he said, chuckling. “Her Highness hopes to one day repair the bridge between us and the Church, and so such knowledge is valuable.”

He peered down at her, narrow-eyed. “By now I am quite sure of the Archbishop’s feelings on that matter, but what about yours, Lady Byleth?” The wind picked up again, threading its icy fingers under her high lapels. “If the opportunity for reconciliation were to arise, would you embrace it?”

She needed only a moment to consider his question. “Of course,” she said confidently. He’d turned his attention to the path, perhaps to give her time and space to answer comfortably, but her sudden reply drew it back. “This wall of silence only deepens resentment.”

“Oh, is that so?” Hubert asked, sounding pleased. His voice was low and silken as he continued, “Then I can say with certainty that Lady Edelgard and I eagerly await your ascension.”

Byleth faltered slightly at his tone - detached, yet entertained - that was again such a mismatch to the content of his speech, glad that her confused frown was mostly obscured by her veil.

“ _ Hubert _ ,” Ferdinand chided, falling into step on Byleth’s other side and leaning around her to address his companion, “how many times have I cautioned against that abysmal sense of humor?”

He turned to Byleth, flashing her a radiant smile. “Please forgive him, Your Grace. He so often forgets to behave properly before new acquaintances,” he said, shaking his head like a mother complaining about her child.

Hubert made a snide grunt of disagreement.

“Anyway, Hubert, did you know that my brilliant cousin is also a student of the lance?” Ferdinand asked excitedly, advancing a few paces to stay close to Flayn, yet still speak comfortably with the back line of their formation.

“I did not,” Hubert said wearily.

His sour demeanor did nothing to dampen Ferdinand’s enthusiasm, however. “Do you think His Majesty would allow me a day of sparring? I do not believe that training weapons count against our visitation rules - ah! Assuming we secured the Church’s permission, of course, and there were no closed doors involved-”

“Absolutely not,” Hubert stated unequivocally. “Ferdinand, surely you are aware how it would appear should the Empire’s next Prime Minister injure a divine vessel?”

Both Ferdinand and Flayn, who’d looked so animated at the prospect, wilted at the strong denial. Their twin expressions of wide-eyed bereavement reinforced their blood relation to a degree that made Byleth smile, though she also felt their disappointment vicariously, having been the recipient of many similar refusals.

“But you may visit again, Lord Ferdinand,” she said in order to lessen the blow. While she agreed with Hubert’s assessment, his biting delivery had been needlessly cruel. “Provided you stay within the public areas of the monastery and Sister Flayn is accompanied at all times.”

She seriously doubted that Seteth would back her up on the decision, but he  _ had _ left the situation to her, and the Holy Maiden’s words  _ did _ carry a measure of weight - and, besides, the blooming delight on Flayn’s face was payment enough for any lecture.

\---

“So the Goddess showed you ancient Zanado,” Rhea mused, mostly to herself, as she sat beside the monastery’s springhead and dipped a clay jug beneath the surface. “Then your spiritual injury must have been grave, indeed.”

Byleth gathered her robes and took a seat there as well, running her hand through the spring waters before submerging her own jug. She’d always enjoyed its constant, pleasantly cool year-round temperature, even in midwinter or high summer.

“Yes,” she said, watching their reflections stretch and distort. “I was in Her throne room and- I felt some of Her emotions, I think.” Byleth withdrew her jug, now full, and set it on the ground beside the spring. “She was lonely.”

Rhea’s brow furrowed slightly. “What else happened?” She asked, setting her own jug aside and folding her hands in her lap. 

“Well, nothing, really. She looked at Zanado and the Blue Sea Star, and then someone walked in,” Byleth explained, recalling the visitor’s stark white hair. “It might have been Nemesis.”

The crease on Rhea’s forehead deepened. “She showed you Her last moments?”

Byleth squirmed in place, an image of the figure’s long, broad shadow falling on the jade throne rising in her memory. “I’m not sure; the vision ended there.”

“I see,” Rhea said, gazing out over the springhead and the mossy, eroded stones that surrounded it. “What do you think it means, my dear one?”

A moment passed in silence while Byleth struggled for a reply; she’d been expecting  _ Rhea _ to tell  _ her _ what it meant, not the other way around.

“Uh, well,” she stammered, “none of the records mention seeing through Sothis’s eyes, so that’s new. I suppose that could be good  _ or _ bad, though.” She ran through the timeline again, and a fresh spike of pain lanced her heart when Felix’s alarmed shout replayed in her mind, the way he’d clutched at her and scrambled to wipe the blood from her skin.

_ Stay on task _ , she thought sternly.

“The vision came after the attack, so maybe it was some sort of warning?” Byleth suggested, hoping for feedback.

But Rhea just turned her head, fixing her student with a stare as placid as the water’s surface had been on their arrival. “A warning for what?”

Byleth rested an elbow on her knee and her chin in her palm, focusing so hard she thought her head might explode. After a prolonged pause, she ventured, “Unexpected...consequences?”

The only indication of Rhea’s approval was a slight upward twitch of her lips, but Byleth caught it; relief flooded her, replacing the strain of concentration.

“I think,” Rhea said calmly, standing and hoisting her jug on her hip. “I will attend Midwinter this year.”

\---

_ Bel, _

_ I hope this letter reaches you quickly. I sent it as soon as I heard about what happened. A messenger brought me news of the attack and said you were recovering at Garreg Mach. _

_ How are you feeling? And what sort of injury did you sustain, exactly? The messenger didn’t have any details. But he did say that Fraldarius got a good strike against the assailant and brought you to the monastery. Tell him I said ‘good work.’ _

_ I won’t be back in the city in time for the ball. I’m sorry. The situation at the Oghma border is more serious than we thought - there’s been a series of kidnappings in several towns, all unsolved, with no bodies or leads. And the trail is heading north, so I’m steadily losing men to back-stationing with each case. _

_ You probably don’t want to hear about bureaucracy or road-rash, so I’ll keep it simple: it’s a shit-show down here and I’ll be away longer than I thought. _

_ Ask one of my knights to take you in my stead. If someone gives you grief, tell them it’s an order from their Knight-Captain. _

_ I miss you. I hope you get well soon. _

_ Jeralt _

\---Part 2: Felix---

It had only been a week, but he already regretted inviting Ingrid and Sylvain to his training sessions with Bel. They brought the wrong equipment, bickered constantly, and  _ then _ they’d even shown up late to the Fraldarius estate this morning.

So now the three were on the road to Garreg Mach, ten minutes past the time they were  _ supposed _ to leave, and Felix couldn’t even look at them. He rode several horse-lengths ahead, seething quietly and trying to block out whatever pointless argument they were engaging in this time.

It was more spirited than usual, it seemed, because after a particularly indignant outburst from Ingrid, Sylvain trotted up alongside him.

“Not interested,” Felix grumbled, spurring his horse to a gallop.

Sylvain garbled something unintelligible, racing to catch up. “Oh, come on - Felix!” He called out plaintively in that infantile tone he used whenever he felt wronged. “It’s about Lady Byleth!”

Felix considered this with a healthy amount of suspicion; Sylvain would say anything to get someone’s attention. But eventually curiosity won out over caution, and he slowed his pace in increments.

“What?” He asked sharply, lifting his reins to make it clear that his friend had just one chance.

Sylvain grinned like he’d just won something; he hadn’t. “You’re taking her to Midwinter,” he commented lightly.

Felix squinted. “Yes. We’ve gone over this. The Regent ordered me to-”

“Yeah, I know, Rufus totally forced you and you hate it,” Sylvain said breezily, rolling his eyes. “But - I don’t think you quite get it.” His voice lowered to a serious timbre and the grin disappeared from his face. “You’re taking the Holy Maiden to the Midwinter Ball.”

Felix’s scowl smoothed out; Sylvain didn’t get like this unless he really had something worthwhile to say. “And?” He asked with less venom than before. 

“ _ And _ three heads of state will be there with their heirs and entourages,” Sylvain emphasized, raising his eyebrows. “Many more eyes will be on you than, say, Count Charon and Lady Arnim - just as an example.”

Suddenly this strange line of provocation made sense. Felix recalled the night of the Gautiers’ party, the looks of outrage on several nobles’ faces as he’d whisked Bel from their claws, and smiled wickedly.

“So you’re telling me to behave, is that it? What else is new?” He raised his reins and made to gallop off, but Sylvain put an arm out to stop him. Felix relented, staring rigidly at the offending appendage until Sylvain withdrew it from his personal space.

“I’m not saying this for you. I’m saying it for her,” Sylvain said gravely. “I know you don’t give a shit about your reputation, but Lady Byleth will be Archbishop one day.” He paused to let that sink in, and Felix did, indeed, shift uncomfortably in his saddle.

“Midwinter is going to be the Empire’s and the Alliance’s first impression of her,” he went on, and a thread of anger had crept into his tone. “So don’t ruin it.”

Felix glared down at his hands for lack of an acceptable target; Sylvain was right, damn him. As a symptom of his disinterest in the Church and Bel’s own distaste for many of its practices, he often forgot that she would someday lead it - and even now the thought disturbed him.

“Okay, fine,” Felix huffed, holding his reins in a vice grip. “What should I do, then? I’m sure you’re itching to tell me.”

Sylvain laughed smugly. “Oh, I am. And I will. For starters, though: please don’t wear your military uniform again.”

“If not that, then what?” Felix asked, exasperated. The uniform was  _ made _ for the knights’ ease at events like this; what could be more appropriate than something denoting rank and function?

“Ah, don’t worry about it now. We’ll visit my tailor in Fhirdiad this week,” Sylvain said, waving his hand dismissively. “Just focus on not frowning and not insulting anyone. And for the Goddess’s sake, get her some flowers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sylvain: ok you kids have fun on your Government Mandated Date (tm)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [endspire](https://endspire.tumblr.com/) made this [absolute gem of a comic](https://endspire.tumblr.com/post/617787537511055360/daughter-of-divinity-ch16-deleted-scene) based on a [deleted scene](https://mechawaka.tumblr.com/post/617035904303988736/dod-ch-16-deleted-scene-its-rough-and) from this chapter - which I guess is now canon, because she really brought Ingrid's casual disregard to life!!

\---Part 1: Byleth---

Divorced from its implications, she had to admit that the gown was really quite beautiful. Its long-sleeved, ivory brocade bodice, detailed with copper thread and tiny pearls, fit her well and she enjoyed the way the light bounced off its decorations.

It also lacked a corset, which Byleth couldn’t complain about; since it echoed the traditional clothing styles of the Church rather than current Fhirdiad fashion, it had a simple button-up backing and a floor-length, pleated silk skirt that fell from its waistline in elegant folds.

And all of that was great, except-

 _This is the very gown I wore to my first Midwinter Ball,_ Rhea had said early that morning, hanging the garment with excess care. _That was- my goodness, it was over forty years ago. I was younger than you are now._

Rhea had probably meant it as a kind gesture, but ever since then, Byleth’s stomach tied itself into knots whenever she looked at the dress. Instead of being just a pretty outfit, it was now a symbol of station, both present and future; not only a promise, but a reminder.

As she slipped into it, watching in the mirror as the silk covered more and more of her body, she wondered bleakly if it was her fate to grow slowly into a Rhea-shaped mold, refining the imitation until the illusion was flawless. The dress already fit perfectly despite a decades-long gap between wearers; how much time until the rest of her followed suit?

Byleth stepped backwards, away from herself, and a floorboard creaked underfoot. The sharp sound cracked straight through her cyclical negativity, and she stared downward for a long moment of incomprehension while her brain resumed its regular, non-defeating processes. Finally it clicked; this was the board that hid her precious things.

Bending with her knees - slowly, mindful of the still-open back of her bodice - she wedged it loose to view the objects inside: her nun’s habit, leather satchel, sturdy boots, and wicker basket, all carefully pilfered from various places in the monastery; her longsword and belt, meticulously kept; and, sitting on top of everything, Felix’s gift from the lake.

She touched the dagger gently, at first only to admire its craftsmanship, but then a wild lark struck her and she took it from the compartment, sliding the board back into place. 

Her _entire_ outfit need not be a pale copy of Rhea, she thought with a tiny, victorious hum as she lifted the hem of her skirt. She looped the dagger’s belt around her thigh, making sure the excess leather was tucked away and the sheath faced outward. Readjusting her skirt in the mirror, she grinned to find her theory proved right; its many folds hid the dagger’s presence entirely.

 _Just try to get me now, mystery assassins_ , she thought, viewing her waist from many different angles to ensure that the weapon would remain hidden. She nearly jumped out of her skin when her front door opened, gripping the corner of her vanity with both hands and silently thanking the Goddess that whomever had just entered couldn’t see her yet.

“Who is it?” She called evenly, smoothing back her hair and giving herself one final, reproachful look in the mirror as she lowered herself onto her stool.

Mercedes appeared in the bedroom’s doorway, smiling cheerfully and weighed down by two full vases of flowers, several copper accessories, and an array of silken garments.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace! Oh, you’ve already started dressing; let me help,” she trilled, depositing her flower cargo onto the vanity and the silk onto the bed. She came to stand behind Byleth, buttoning up the back of her bodice.

“Good afternoon, Mercedes,” Byleth said, intending to engage her friend further, but her attention had strayed to the two vases; one of them, full of pure white lilies, she recognized from Rhea’s personal garden, but the other was completely unfamiliar.

It was flared at the bottom and taller than the ones used at the monastery, painted a light, seafoam green and decorated with the image of a silver bell. Most interesting, though, was its contents: a bouquet of amethyst-hued wood violets.

“Just lovely, aren’t they?” Mercedes asked wistfully, gathering up Byleth’s hair and brushing it out. “They were delivered from House Fraldarius.” With a little giggle, she added, “I guess that means Felix _was_ paying attention at the party.”

Byleth ran her fingers over the violets’ velvety petals, laughing softly as she looked on the vase’s decorations with new eyes. “Felix is always paying attention,” she murmured, tracing the outline of the bell.

The comb stilled; she looked up to find Mercedes staring at her in the mirror with a mix of concern and kindness. Byleth tensed, expecting some sort of admonishment, but Mercedes only smiled.

“How should I style your hair, Your Grace?” She asked gently, placing a comforting hand on Byleth’s shoulder - a simple show of alliance.

Byleth breathed out in relief, relaxing by degrees until she sat naturally again.

“Up, I think,” she said, choosing a look diametrically opposed to Rhea’s. “And- do you think we could use the violets instead of the lilies?”  
  


\---Part 2: Felix---

“Perhaps we should have gone with lilies, after all,” Rodrigue pondered, breaking a long silence.

Felix turned in his father’s direction, not quite meeting his eyes, but close enough to convey irritation. “It’s fine,” he insisted, and not for the first time that day. “I know what I’m doing.”

The two stood before their carriage at the entrance of Garreg Mach, freshly arrived from a tailor and a florist in the city. Neither man was accustomed to the sort of fashion to which Sylvain had subjected them - in hindsight, Felix regretted that his one and only stipulation had been ‘loose enough to fight in’ - and they both fidgeted restlessly under the monastery’s arched wooden gate.

Rodrigue shot his son a doubtful, knowing glance that perfectly communicated his level of confidence in Felix’s flower-choosing abilities. The two had spent the better part of an hour debating the topic in front of a terrified and overwhelmed florist, and only a combination of time constraint and reckless obstinance had won Felix the bout. 

But just when Felix thought he would revisit the argument, Rodrigue’s expression brightened instead.

“It was good of Sylvain to assist us,” he said in a light and conversational tone. “It’s been so long since I courted anyone; I’d forgotten almost everything.”

Felix choked on air, nearly scuffing his shiny new boots with the aggressive stance he took. “We’re not- _courting_ ,” he asserted, spitting the word like a curse and startling a passing group of acolytes, “and don’t you dare say any nonsense like that to B-” he bit off the name, “-to Lady Byleth.”

The corners of Rodrigue’s mouth ticked upward. “Of course not,” he acquiesced easily, looking pleased with himself. There had been far too much of that going around lately, Felix decided, fingers twitching with the urge to punch his father in the face - an impulse with which he often contended and usually won.

Struggling to hold in a biting retort, he set his jaw and turned back to the gate just in time to watch two figures emerge from the residential tower. Even from this distance, even though their forms were indistinct, he knew that one of them was Bel; the way she walked, the way she carried herself - he’d recognize it anywhere. The other, taller and with a more controlled bearing, was probably the Archbishop. 

Everyone they passed on their way down the main path stopped what they were doing - whether it be prayer, labor, or simple walking - to salute and bow their heads. This scene of worship, coupled with the backdrop of the temple and the traditional outfits the two wore, could have jumped straight out of an illustration of Zanado, Felix thought, and the comparison sat with him uncomfortably.

And if _he_ was uncomfortable, Bel must be suffering. He’d gleaned how much it bothered her to be treated like the Goddess, to be held to such lofty standards. _That’s going to be her whole night_ , he realized grimly, resolving to shield her from as much of it as possible.

“Archbishop Rhea. Lady Byleth,” Rodrigue greeted them when they were close enough to address, offering salutes to both.

Felix grudgingly did the same, if only to speed the interaction along, but then he raised his head and all thoughts of expediency vanished at the sight of the very flowers he’d ordered not three hours prior-

But they were now woven into Bel’s hair, which had been twisted and braided into an elaborate style; the violet blooms stood out vibrantly against a sea of mint green, a splash of heretical color in the ensemble of orthodox white-and-navy.

His eyes lowered to her face, and the wry, conspiratorial smile she wore behind her veil told him that, yes, this was intentional. He wanted to reciprocate it, to share in her small rebellion, to show her how proud he was to have enabled such a fiercely beautiful display - but the Archbishop was looking at him, and a tiny, Sylvain-esque voice in the back of his mind advocated for patience.

“Duke Fraldarius,” Rhea said, inclining her head. “Lord Felix. Thank you for accompanying us to the city.”

Rodrigue opened the carriage door and gestured for Rhea to enter, keeping his hands respectfully at his sides. “It is our honor, Lady Rhea,” he replied, ascending after her.

Felix knew the rules - and that Bel disliked being helped into carriages - but extended his hand anyway, holding it just out of view of the door and raising a teasing eyebrow at her. She rose to the challenge with a broad grin, slipping her hand into his and climbing the steps with an excessively proper air.

On the last one, she leaned over, pausing under the guise of adjusting her veil, and plucked one of the violets from her hair. Felix held his breath as she - slowly, giving him time to move away; he didn’t - affixed it to the breast of his fitted coat.

“Thank you,” Bel whispered, her words muffled and nearly canceled out by the background exchange of niceties between Rhea and Rodrigue, but Felix heard them. Her playful smile morphed into a soft, sincere one, and then she dipped into the cabin.

Felix spent a few moments in stunned contemplation outside the carriage, holding a hand to his chest where she’d applied a faint pressure to secure the flower, heartbeat thundering beneath it and a furious blush receding gradually from his cheeks, before following her.

This was going to be a long night.

\---Part 3: Byleth---

She’d been dreading this carriage ride since Rhea had decided to attend the ball. In her mind, cramming the four of them into an enclosed space could only create a tense and awkward atmosphere - and she was half-right.

Byleth sat next to Rhea on one bench, turned slightly inward to keep an eye on her mentor at all times. Felix, on the opposite bench, was squeezed in next to the window, putting as much space as he could between himself and his father. Both remained quiet, observing the other two, who seemed ignorant of their heirs’ collective stress levels.

“And how is the investigation progressing on your end?” Rhea asked in an abrupt shift from pleasantry to business. “I believe you should have already received Seteth’s findings on the aberrant augur spike.”

Rodrigue, being a practiced courtier, needed no further initiation into the topic. He straightened his posture and, in a departure from his earlier, easygoing tone, reported, “Indeed, we have. Lord Rufus has been, ah- _distracted_ with preparations for the ball, so myself and Margrave Gautier have taken the reins.”

Byleth recalled the past month’s First Devotion augury sessions with Rufus, in which he had exclusively chased his obsession with an Enbarr starlet who would be performing tonight, and sighed inwardly.

“The bulk of the royal knights must remain in the city until the Emperor and the Sovereign Duke depart - especially since the Knight-Captain is currently deployed - but after that, we plan to send several contingents to look into the details you’ve provided,” Rodrigue continued, and at his side, Felix’s expression soured. “I believe that Lord Seteth’s suggestion is the correct one: we must first determine the origin of that strange metal.”

Rhea nodded sagely. “Good. Seteth, Byleth, and I have conducted many hours of study in the archives, and many oracles, to determine the attackers’ identities and whereabouts.” 

A phantom ache pulsed in Byleth’s left wrist, an echo of the rigors of frequent augury. To obtain a specific piece of information from the Goddess’s vague, symbolic answers, one must ask a question several times, rephrased in different ways, and compile the results for mass analysis.

“It will be some time yet before a clear picture emerges, I am afraid,” Rhea said, running a hand over her own wrist as if experiencing the same pain. 

“Well, we are all doing our utmost,” Rodrigue said, offering Byleth an amicable smile. “In the meantime, you are well protected, Your Grace. I hope you can enjoy yourself to the fullest this evening.”

Rhea turned her head, the copper ornaments of her crown tinkling quietly together. “Yes, my dear one, have no fear. We will be watching over you.”

Where Rodrigue’s assurance had heartened Byleth, Rhea’s then splashed freezing water, sending a shiver up her spine. Across from her, Felix looked similarly disturbed, glaring down at his knees with a formidable crease between his brows.

Byleth gathered enough of herself to nod politely, clenching her hands together in her lap, and swallowed around the acrid unease in her throat.

\---Part 4: Felix---

Castle Blaiddyd loomed over the carriage as it trundled into an expansive courtyard, passing numerous other vehicles bearing the family crests of nobility both local and foreign. Felix scanned over them all, noting the number and quality of the other nations’ knights as they marched past and mentally marking the competent-looking ones for further scrutiny.

They rolled to a stop between the keep and the stables, joining a long line of carriages whose occupants waited to be ushered to the Grand Hall for introduction. A steward approached the cabin door, peering owlishly inside and scribbling into a ledger.

“Archbishop Rhea. Duke Fraldarius,” the woman said, performing a Church salute and then a Kingdom one, “please follow me to the entrance hall.”

Rhea placed a hand over Bel’s, smiling gently before disembarking. Rodrigue - thankfully - did no such thing, merely shooting Felix a stern, meaningful look and then climbing down, as well.

“Lady Byleth, Lord Felix, your escort will be along shortly,” the steward said with a curt bow, and then closed the door again.

Felix promptly drew the window curtain and leaned back against the cabin wall, closing his eyes for the first moment of peace he’d gotten since very early that morning. It would take a fair few minutes to introduce the heads of state and House from all three countries - so he and Bel had that little while to themselves, at least.

A small laugh made him crack one eye open; Bel was untying her veil and directing a knowing smile his way.

“Long day?” She asked coyly, folding the veil and laying it neatly beside her.

Felix snorted, her casual delivery easing some of the tension in his body. “For you, too, I’d bet,” he said, taking in the sweeping, elegant lines - the same color as the violets - that someone had painted around her eyes.

She grinned, accentuating the fine detailing, but then it faded; she braced her hands on the edge of the bench and looked up, regarding him uncertainly. “It’s been a while since we could talk.”

They spoke together regularly during their lessons, but he knew what she’d meant. It had been a while since they could _really_ talk - without other people present - without the weight of expectation.

“It has,” he agreed, moving to the center of his bench so that they could be directly across from one another. The position reminded him of the last time they’d shared this carriage, before the attack, when she’d grasped at his wrist and looked so desperate for connection - a desperation that had resonated within him so deeply that he’d given it to her. Or had she given it to him?

A lifeline.

The way she kept glancing between their hands, he could guess that her thoughts were similar.

“Um, before the attack,” Bel began haltingly, validating his suspicions, “when I- when we-” she paused, a dark rose hue tinting the tips of her ears. Still, she pressed on, “Did you- hate it?”

Felix’s faintly amused smirk tilted downward. If he’d hated it, would he have allowed it in the first place? She should know him better than that, he thought, but then had to amend it; he’d always let her close, even from the beginning, in the forest - it had been for survival, then, but every time after-

The air hissed from his lungs. Every time after was voluntary; and he _had_ volunteered his personal space, over and over, without really knowing why. No wonder she saw an incongruity in how he treated her versus others.

During this deliberation, Bel’s face fell, and he realized with a shock of guilt that his silence probably seemed very much like confirmation to her.

In answer, rather than speaking, he rested his elbows on his knees and extended one arm across the gap, palm up, in invitation. He dipped his head to catch her gaze with his, hoping it would communicate what his words could never: _please_ ; _connection_ ; _lifeline_.

Bel’s eyes widened, first in surprise, then disbelief, as she raised one slender hand and slid it into his, checking on him often as if to make sure that this was, indeed, what he’d intended. 

He laughed and closed his fingers around her, squeezing lightly. They were both wearing gloves this time, so it wasn’t exactly the same, but that familiar warmth still permeated the layers of silk and cotton.

“I thought,” Bel said, watching him with a mixture of confusion and fascination, “I mean, I noticed - you don’t like being touched.”

He hummed in vague affirmation, tilting his head, eyes falling to their hands once more. “I don’t,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her palm. The action soothed him, calming the tangled, contradictory mess of his thoughts.

She huffed a baffled, “Then why-”

“I don’t know,” he admitted simply, lifting his gaze to hers again, his mouth twisted into something lost and frustrated. “I just wanted-” _this_ ; _you_ ; _everything_ , “-I don’t know.”

Bel’s seafoam-green eyes melted at his floundering. “It’s okay,” she said, tightening her grip on him. “I think I know what you mean.” She smiled sheepishly, acknowledging this odd tactile _thing_ they’d discovered together. 

“We could just leave it here,” she offered, nodding down, “for now?”

Felix exhaled harshly, shoulders lowering, unaware of how stiff he’d become. “Yeah,” he breathed, shaking his head to clear it. “That’s a good idea.”

Her expression softened, full of trust and acceptance, and he swallowed thickly.

“Lady Byleth. Lord Felix,” called a voice from outside; presumably another castle steward. “Please follow me to the entrance hall.”

Bel took her hand back reluctantly, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt like she needed something else to hold onto. “Time to go,” she said timidly, violet-hued lips twitching with anxiety.

He tracked all of these small actions with a frown, wondering at her instant loss of confidence, but had no more time to inquire. Instead he moved to the door, one knee on the floor for stability, and whispered up to her, “I’m with you,” before turning the handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *old timey newspaper headline* LOCAL DORKS OVERWHELMED BY HAND-HOLDING


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day early! \o/
> 
> My next upload day will still be 'on schedule' (i.e. the 10th). I'm gonna use the extra time to plot out something for Mermay!

Unlike Founding Day, when the halls of Castle Blaiddyd’s keep had been deserted and imposing, the main corridor leading to the Great Hall was alive with chatter and color. Far off at the end, the last heads of House were trickling through massive wood-and-steel doors, the faint echoes of their introductions barely carrying over the combined voices of everyone else waiting to enter.

Byleth knew which group to join; Sylvain and Dimitri, with their eye-catching heads of red and blonde that towered over most others, provided convenient landmarks for where the rest of the Kingdom heirs were standing. Less convenient was the ordering: since announcements proceeded by title, the place she and Felix needed to reach laid beyond two long lines of Empire and Alliance nobility.

Even now, some of them had turned to see the new arrivals, concealing intrigued smiles and alerting their partners with hushed, excited whispers.

She slowed her steps, chewing nervously on the inside of her lip, and found herself greatly sympathizing with Flayn; with no knowledge of how these people viewed her - or how they would receive her - Byleth very much fancied the idea of cramming herself into a concealed corner until everyone left.

A nudge at her side drew her attention. Felix had matched her pace and now offered his elbow, though he remained staring pointedly ahead at their destination. She took it, giving his wrist a tiny, grateful squeeze, and saw the briefest hint of an answering smile at the corner of his mouth.

 _I’m with you_ , he’d said, low and furtive, stabbing directly through her heart with the sincerity of it, and now an aftershock of that warmth ran along the length of their joined arms like a faultline. His silent yet reassuring presence at her side enabled her to walk confidently once more, and the two passed the gawking foreigners with a set, determined stride.

“Over here!” Sylvain called, as if his bright hair and stylish outfit hadn’t been the beacons that had guided them in the first place. He gestured to the empty spot between himself and Dimitri, whistling appreciatively as they settled into it.

“Wow, you two look amazing - and I can only take credit for this one,” he said, patting down Felix’s hair, which had been straightened and gathered loosely at the nape of his neck in a silver band; Felix ducked away with a grunt of protest.

“Good evening,” Byleth said softly, inclining her head to each of her immediate neighbors - Dimitri, Sylvain, and Ingrid - in turn. She was surprised to see Ingrid in a fashionable gown of emerald green, given her riding instructor’s earlier comments on clothing choice.

Dimitri turned to face his friends with his good side. “Good evening,” he said amicably, tugging on the hems of his short cotton gloves. “Sylvain, I must agree with your assessment: you’ve done a fine job with these two. And, Your Grace, you look absolutely divine.”

She stiffened, retreating behind the peaceful mask of Lady Byleth to conceal her discomfort. Logically, she understood that there was no way he could have known the baggage that went along with that particular comparison - but it still stung.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she demurred, and then turned to address Sylvain in a lighter tone, pointing to Felix and Ingrid. “So, you did this?”

Over her head, Felix had leaned closer to Dimitri to mutter, “You bloody boar,” under his breath, an utterance that - judging from its barbed, personal nature - was probably meant only for the two of them to hear.

Meanwhile, Sylvain was practically glowing under all the praise. “Why, yes, I did,” he said, running a hand through his hair theatrically. “ _And_ I sustained only minor injuries in the process.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Please don’t get him started, Your Grace.”

Both Dimitri and Byleth had looked to Felix, confused, but then the Grand Hall’s gigantic doors creaked open again, commanding everyone’s attention.

With an apologetic parting glance to the rest of the group and a final, questioning one to Felix, Dimitri stepped up alongside the leading nobles of the other two lines and entered the ball.

Inside, the herald announced in a clarion voice, “Crown Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of Faerghus, Imperial Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg of Adrestia, and Heir Presumptive Claude von Riegan of Leicester!”

Byleth caught a glimpse of the room beyond - already crowded, lined with tall, thin windows of colored glass, and lit by three circular golden chandeliers. She took in as much as she could, trying to see where Rhea and the rest of the Church members were standing - and she thought she spied a flash of white and green near the back of the hall - but it was gone too soon to be certain, obscured by the gigantic doors.

“Lady Byleth!” Someone stage-whispered to her right, and she turned with a little jump to see Ferdinand, dressed in a dark red, slim-cut suit style that was popular in the Empire, giving her a small, friendly wave from the front of his own line.

She inclined her head politely, glad to see an acquaintance among the strangers. “Good evening, Lord Ferdinand,” she said, noting the shocked expressions of not only her peers, but his, as well.

“Do not be nervous, Your Grace,” Ferdinand urged with a confident grin, still whispering despite the open conversations being held elsewhere in all three lines, “You look beautiful, and my compatriots are eager to meet you!”

Byleth looked to the ‘compatriots’ he’d indicated: a bright-eyed, blue-haired man nodding vigorously, and a taller, slender one regarding her with a half-lidded, piercing gaze. She did a double take at the second man - with his long, dark green hair and belted robe, he could have been a resident of the monastery.

But before she could reply, the doors opened once more. She gripped Felix’s arm and peeked up at him for emotional support; he broke off the suspicious glare he’d been directing at Ferdinand to give her a single, resolute nod, and then they walked together into the Grand Hall.

“Lady Byleth, Ninth Divine Vessel of the Goddess Sothis, and Lord Felix Hugo Fraldarius of Faerghus,” called the herald. “Lord Ferdinand von Aegir of Adrestia! Lady Hilda Valentine Goneril of Leicester!”

A great rush of air welcomed them into the ball, accompanied by a different sort of din than in the corridor - lower, more proper - and threads of pleasant music from an orchestra situated one floor up. Byleth raised her head to see it fully - and raised it - and kept raising it as she found not only two, but four different tiers to this hall, all occupied by partygoers.

She looked around for Rhea and found her on a dais beyond an empty marble dance floor, along with Lord Rufus and two men she didn’t recognize - from their regalia and positioning, they were most likely Emperor Ionius IX and Sovereign Duke Riegan. They were both sitting on thrones, while Rhea and Rufus stood, and Byleth couldn’t help but notice their advanced age and lackluster vitality; Seteth _had_ informed her that the two were in ill health, but the sight still surprised her in person.

Byleth had a bigger problem, however. As she and Felix neared the Kingdom nobles’ section to the left of the dance floor, she saw that there was a separate gathering of Church folk - Seteth, Mercedes, and other local bishops - on an adjacent side of the marble square. There was a spot beside Rodrigue clearly meant for Felix - and one beside Seteth clearly meant for her.

She and Felix exchanged a brief look, equal in mutinous sentiment and unwillingness to part, and headed for the knights’ gathering instead.

“ _Felix_! You’re going to get her in trouble!” Annette hissed as they arrived, her ear-to-ear grin twisting into a grimace when she glanced up to the rulers’ dais. “Oh, no, look at Lady Rhea.”

Byleth’s stomach flopped over. “I’d rather not,” she mumbled.

“Don’t think about them,” Felix breathed next to her ear - sending a shiver from the top of her head all the way down to her toes - and pulled her closer against his side. “They don’t control you. Stand tall.”

She did, adjusting her posture and swallowing her fear in the same manner that she was accustomed to suppressing her wants and opinions. Emboldened, she met Rhea’s tight, displeased eyes across the crowd that separated them - and smiled.

\---

As the rest of the noble heirs arrived in similar sets of three, a trend - a disturbing one, going by their parents’ faces - began on the Kingdom side in which a person would enter, notice that some of their peers were standing out of place, and then gleefully join in on the disobedience.

Soon this had spread to the other nations’ youths, and by the time everyone had entered the hall, it was impossible to tell anyone’s rank solely by their positioning. Section lines had even begun to blur as acquaintances formed and joined; several heads of House were frowning deeply, scandalized by the mingling and disorder.

“You did this,” Ingrid accused, jabbing her index finger at Felix. “It’s an absolute mess.”

He smirked like she’d paid him a compliment, observing coolly, “And yet here you are.”

“I couldn’t just abandon my pa-” she said defensively, tongue snagging on the final word. “My part- ugh- _Sylvain_ ,” she finished through clenched teeth.

Beside her, Sylvain hid a bark of laughter behind a cough and a closed fist. “Yes, it was very noble of you to follow your Sylvain into the dreadful chaos of-” he looked around at the mixed group of Kingdom, Empire, and Alliance nobles, then back at Ingrid with a mock-horrified expression, “- _association_.”

Byleth also took in the gathering, an odd sense of satisfaction welling up from somewhere deep inside her. “What’s so bad about it?” She asked, glancing between Ingrid and Felix. “Why do so many people look angry?”

Irritation at unruliness, she could easily grasp; that was Seteth’s near-permanent state, after all, and she did indeed spy some of those faces among the masses. But there was also fury - real, torrential wrath - on some others, contorting their features nearly beyond recognition. How could a few cross-border conversations have caused _that_?

Ingrid’s long-suffering scowl turned to perplexion, then dawning comprehension. “Oh. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say this at a peacekeeping event,” she hedged, checking their immediate surroundings before continuing, “but there are many - _disputes_ \- among our three nations, some of which have been, ah, violent. There will probably be more ahead…”

She trailed off, crossing her arms, and Sylvain picked up the slack.

“What she means to say is that everyone here is going to inherit a political position, and people in those positions sometimes have to negotiate through an armed conflict,” he explained casually; too casually for the subject. “So a lot of folks think it’s best not to get too friendly with other countries’ nobles - you know, since some of us will be handling prisoner exchanges with them in the future.”

Felix deadpanned, “It’s easier to oppose a faceless enemy. For some.”

Byleth absorbed their words, considering them for a few thoughtful moments before answering, “Then - if these future politicians understood each other better, perhaps they would oppose each other less often?”

A beat of silence passed, then Ingrid smiled, saying with a soft laugh, “When you put it like that, Your Grace, I can’t say that I disagree.”

On the rulers’ dais, Rhea and Rufus had moved to their respective thrones and now sat down; the orchestra struck up the opening chords of a tune in triple meter, signalling the start of the Grand March.

The cacophony of voices in the hall waned to a hushed, excited simmer as every eye traveled to the still-empty marble dance floor.

 _This is a showcase of Fodlan’s next generation of leadership_ , Seteth had reminded her on their last day of practice together. _Be proper and courteous - and remember that you represent the Church_.

With one last, rueful smile, Byleth let go of Felix’s arm and, already missing its stable warmth, moved calmly to her starting place. Her peers sent her off with murmurs of, ‘Good luck,’ and ‘You’ve got this,’ lending an assured quality to her stride.

It was fine. She could do this, she thought resolutely. A third of these people had seen her dance once before, anyway - and the Adrestian Minuet required much less rhythmic precision than the Gift of the Goddess.

The four participants aligned themselves at the four sides of the square dance floor, faced inward, and then Dimitri and Edelgard started off in opposite directions to pick up their respective partners.

“Hello, again, Your Grace,” Dimitri said shyly, holding out a hand to Byleth. She laid hers lightly upon it, seeing that, across the way, Edelgard and Claude had done the same. 

“Hello, Your Highness,” she replied, dipping into a partner’s curtsey. Both couples strolled a tour of the perimeter, each stopping where the other had started, and then the dance began in earnest.

Dimitri was a more graceful dancer than his broad physique had suggested, but he seemed afraid to get too close to her; he held her hand like a feather, like a pane of glass that could shatter unexpectedly, and skipped over steps that required him to be nearer than half an arm’s length.

Perhaps, like Felix, he disliked contact from most others, she pondered as they completed a simple turn-and-bow.

“Are you comfortable?” He asked, eyeing her worriedly. “I know this is your first function of such size - if you’re nervous - if there’s anything I can do-”

Byleth laughed internally; _he_ was the nervous one. She’d made her peace with this dance. “I am fine, thank you,” she said with practiced passivity and a shadow of a smile - it was, regrettably, the limit of emotion she was supposed to display.

“Oh,” Dimitri said, as if he’d expected a different answer. His good eye darted around her, never alighting on her face, until he’d come up with another topic.

“I’m terribly sorry that I haven’t yet visited you at the monastery. It’s just one problem after another, lately,” he said with a weary smile, and Byleth was reminded again how worn-out he looked all the time. “If it’s not the roadways, it’s the border-” he fixed her with a serious stare, “-or an unknown assailant.”

She nodded gravely. Given Rufus’s ineptitude, Dimitri was probably the busiest person in the Kingdom at the moment.

“I am patient, Your Highness. Please don’t worry on my account. But,” she said, pausing to compose her words carefully, “have you no advisors of your own? Someone to help you, like how Lord Rodrigue assists the Regent?”

Dimitri laughed hollowly, but he couldn’t respond immediately; the two couples crossed over in the center of the dance floor, bowing to each other in passing, and continued in opposite directions.

“Of course,” he said when they were far enough away. “Rodrigue also helps me with many tasks, and the other heads of House do, as well.” He hesitated, then clamped his mouth shut.

“But?” She prompted quietly, feeling as though they’d traveled back in time to their conversation at Sylvain’s party; like there was something eating at Dimitri, just below the surface, scratching at his insides.

He smiled flawlessly, subsuming that fleeting image of insecurity in an action Byleth knew well. “It’s nothing. I have many that can assist me; thank you for your concern, Lady Byleth.”

The corners of her mouth ticked downward, and the smooth mirror of his expression cracked.

“I don’t wish to burden the Holy Maiden,” he explained quickly.

An inelegant, incredulous sound threatened to escape her throat; she forced it down. She was getting unbelievably tired of enduring others’ underestimation.

“As I understand it, you’ll be _burdening_ me often in the future,” she said wryly. “It’ll be awfully hard to write policy together if you won’t speak to me about your troubles.”

Dimitri winced, casting his eye briefly downward. “Point- point taken,” he said, chagrined, and met her gaze more steadily than before. “For the sake of our work together, I will try to be more open with you,” he promised, and Byleth almost laughed at the seriousness of it.

“Good,” she said with barely restrained mirth. “And please call on me for assistance, if there is any I can provide.”

He dipped his head obediently. “I will.”

Gradually, they neared the center of the floor again, and this time they’d have to perform the dreaded partner swap. Dimitri’s movements became more reluctant, but hers grew bolder - after speaking with Hubert, Byleth was rather excited to meet the Imperial Princess.

“See you around,” she said, giving him as much of a smirk as her parameters of expression would allow, and broke away. 

At the midpoint of the exchange, she locked eyes with Claude, but instead of a nod or a greeting, he simply grinned and sauntered on. She had to do the same, of course, but she tossed a bewildered glance back over her shoulder; he’d seamlessly connected with Dimitri, muttering something that made the prince flush a deep scarlet.

“Did he say anything to you?” Edelgard asked, taking one of Byleth’s hands in a polite but assertive grip. Her smile was kind, but her eyes - a pale purple, like budding lavender - were hard and calculating. _Just like Hubert’s_ , Byleth thought.

“Whatever it was, it’s best to ignore it. Half of what Lord Claude says is nonsense and the other half is trickery,” Edelgard said decisively, softening the blow with a tiny laugh - though nothing about her tone had suggested a joke.

“He did not,” Byleth answered evenly, reverting to a highly formal pattern of speech and behavior. She was a little surprised to be looking down at the princess; even while they’d been waiting in the corridor, merely ten or so feet apart, Edelgard’s bearing had suggested a much greater height.

“I am honored to meet you, Your Highness,” she went on, formulating a tactful way to ask about her partner’s apparent disdain for the Alliance’s heir. After a moment, she settled on, “Are you and Lord Claude well acquainted?”

Edelgard was silent for a few seconds as the newly-formed couples danced their way to the edges of the square in unison, circling each other in time to the music. The chandeliers’ candlelight accented the golden circlet on her head, the rubies that sparkled in an eagle’s fierce countenance.

“As much as we are expected to be,” she eventually replied, clipped and breezy. When she spoke again, her voice was friendlier, “And the honor is mine, Your Grace. Honestly, I’ve wanted to meet you for a while; ever since your Induction, in fact.”

Byleth’s eyes went wide. “Really?” She couldn’t imagine why. Wasn’t the Empire - especially House Hresvelg - supposed to be at odds with the Church?

The look on her face must have communicated her thoughts, because Edelgard laughed softly and clarified, “I’m not interested in my forebears’ blood feuds. I prefer to decide things for myself.”

She leaned in closer, bringing with her a thrumming, pressurized discomfort that knocked Byleth off-guard. “And I have decided that you, Lady Byleth, are quite interesting.”

Byleth’s mouth went dry. She’d felt the same oppressive aura from Hubert and assumed it was just the man’s intimidating presence; Edelgard carried nothing of his menace, but instilled the same heavy dread. _Why_?

“Ah, it seems I’ve forgotten my manners,” Edelgard said, withdrawing and bringing that nauseating feeling with her. “I shouldn’t impose on someone so recently recovered.”

Byleth took a deep, shuddering breath, barely keeping her composure intact enough to present a blank face. “It- it’s all right,” she said, slipping from polite to casual in her concentration.

They were past the halfway mark of their progression now, gearing up for another partner swap. As they passed the rulers’ dais, Edelgard’s eyes slid from Byleth to Rhea, then back again, sharp and pensive.

“Hubert tells me you know nothing of your family apart from your mother and father,” Edelgard said, more hushed and severe than before. “Is that true?”

On instinct, Byleth lowered her voice as well. “Yes. How is that-?” _Relevant_ , she wanted to finish, but cut herself off.

Edelgard seemed to read the full question anyway, her mouth pulling into a thin smile. “I see. You really don’t know,” she stated vaguely with another sidelong glance to Rhea. “How enlightening.”

It took all of Byleth’s will to keep a frustrated frown off of her face. “Don’t know _what_?” She asked, dropping all pretense of formality; if the princess was going to be so enigmatic and - frankly - rude, then all bets were off.

Edelgard led them toward the center of the dance floor, saying quietly so as not to be overheard by the other couple, “Have no fear; I _do_ mean to tell you. Save a dance for me later.”

And with that, they separated. Byleth moved away from her, back across the center toward Dimitri, even more disoriented than the last time she’d made this journey. Why in Sothis’s name were all of these people from the Empire so concerned about her family? She was a _vessel_ ; her blood ties were meaningless.

At the midpoint, she prepared herself for another cheeky gesture from Claude, but instead - in a maneuver that happened so quickly she wasn’t sure exactly how he’d accomplished it - he grabbed her arm and back-stepped them both past Dimitri, subtly shoving the prince toward Edelgard.

In the next breath, he was holding Byleth’s hand in precisely the correct fashion for the Minuet; behind them, to maintain the flow of the dance, Dimitri and Edelgard had joined together as well. _Their_ faces betrayed nothing past momentary shock, as expected of two well-bred royals, but Claude was grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“Surprise,” he said cheerily, and then, to Byleth’s stony reaction, “What? You and your beau shook up the rules, but I can’t?”

Before she could stop herself, she made a low, strangled sound and objected, “He’s not my-” before registering the dark amusement in his eyes. _He was trying to break me_ , she realized. _And he did it in one sentence_.

This man was dangerous, much more so than the Imperial Princess’s cryptic but straightforward inquiries.

“Don’t go raising your walls on me now, Your Grace,” Claude advised, chuckling. “I’ve already seen past them. Best to show me the real you.”

Byleth was fairly sure she hated him already. “Fine,” she snapped, maintaining her expressionless mask. “Nobody told me that Duke Riegan’s grandson was such an _insufferable cad_.”

“Whoa!” Claude blinked rapidly, his grin widening. “And nobody told _me_ that the Kingdom’s Holy Maiden had such a mouth on her!” He inspected her face like he was checking for gaps in armor. “Has Dimitri seen this?”

She drew back as far as she could while still holding his hand, as if the extra few inches of distance might protect her from his probing gaze.

“No, huh - how sad for him,” he determined - from what, she couldn’t say - and continued mischievously, “but _someone_ has.”

 _Don’t do anything - don’t say anything - for the Goddess’s sake, don’t look at Felix_ , she thought hectically, and her eyes felt like they were twitching from the effort of keeping them straight ahead.

“I bet it was your surly escort, right?” 

_Give nothing more,_ she repeated in her mind, projecting an image of serenity that was not reflected within. They were passing by the Kingdom’s section at absolutely the wrong time, and she channeled all of her focus into _not looking at Felix_.

Claude peered at her from one angle, then another, and then finally relented, “All right, you win this one. Guess all that Church training’s good for something, after all.”

She’d been anticipating another pointed question. That little comment - delivered so suddenly, and so aligned with her own sentiments - was unexpectedly the line that cracked her mask; in the middle of a graceful twirl, she giggled.

“What, seriously?” Claude asked with a deeply entertained smirk. “All I had to do was disparage the Church? I didn’t see that one coming.”

Byleth repaired her guise in short order, irritated at both her own gullibility and his deceptively endearing character. “Is there something you want from me, or is unsettling others a hobby of yours?”

He laughed. “A hobby, definitely. It’s so very rewarding.” His laughter ended abruptly, as if something had just struck him. “Oh! But I did want to tell you-” he lowered his voice to a similar volume that Edelgard had used, “-it wasn’t us.”

Byleth, who’d leaned in to hear him better, was starting to see the value in the princess’s earlier advice: half nonsense, half trickery. “What,” she said flatly.

“You know - the attempt on your life,” Claude said, as laid back as if he were discussing the weather. “Oh, don’t look so surprised; Faerghus puts up a good fight, but it can _not_ keep a secret.”

She just stared at him, processing his words, as something else equally horrifying dawned on her: _I shouldn’t impose on someone so recently recovered_ , Edelgard had said.

“Anyway, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I thought I’d save you guys some resources,” Claude continued. “I’m also curious to know who it was that attacked you. Think you could drop me a letter when you find out?”

Byleth, currently splitting her attention between performing the last steps of the Minuet and working through the twin mysteries that were Edelgard and Claude, could only fix him with a controlled warning glare. 

“Yeah, I thought not,” he conceded, glancing up as the music began to slow. “And it’s the end of our time already. Well, Your Grace, I hope this was as fun for you as it was for me.”

“ _Fun_ isn’t the word I would use,” Byleth groused, flexing the fingers of her left hand.

Claude chuckled lightly as he delivered her back to her side of the square. In a final, sweeping gesture, he bowed low and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand - the same one that itched to consume him in holy flame - before releasing it.

“We really must do this again sometime,” he said, winking, and then departed for his own section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix to byleth when they break a rule: what are they gonna do, fire you?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I've learned about myself this week:
> 
> 1) writing this slow burn has made me REAL thirsty
> 
> 2) i cannot work on two projects at once
> 
> So, I'll be taking a week off this fic to finish [the MerMay one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055663/chapters/57887848). ~~Regular updates will resume next Sunday (the 17th) at the VERY latest, but something tells me I'll finish Sunset much sooner than that.~~ <\- Turns out I did some pretty bad math and didn't account for writing the dang chapter! The 17th is when I will be _starting_ Ch. 19, so it will release on the 22nd!

\---Part 1: Felix---

Felix wasn’t jealous.

He’d always known how Midwinter started; he was forced to watch the damn thing every year. Usually, though, he only had to tolerate Rufus and Duke Riegan - both notorious womanizers - with whomever they’d chosen to escort for the evening.

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Bel dance before, either, he thought, watching her twirl around Dimitri and deciding that the rhythmic, heavy movements from Founding Day had suited her much better.

Or maybe it was just the lack of a partner that had suited her.

He shifted his weight. He was _not_ jealous - he had no right to be - he’d be seeing events like this all the time from now on, so it was _pointless_ to be-

“Hey, let up a little,” Sylvain whispered beside him, smiling nervously and looking down. Confused, Felix did, too - and found that he’d gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that the leather was creaking.

He immediately released it, fingers throbbing as blood rushed back into them, and shook out his hand. 

“I understand. I really do,” Sylvain went on, and Felix _highly_ doubted that was true. “But the party just started, so maybe- pace yourself?”

Felix flicked his eyes up to Sylvain, unamused, then crossed his arms over his chest and looked back to the dance floor. It was a mistake; Dimitri was smiling at something Bel had said, watching her a little too fondly, touching her like she was fragile, and Felix squared his shoulders to endure Goddess-knew-how-much-longer of this gauntlet.

“I’m fine,” he ground out, ignoring Sylvain’s pitying gaze in his periphery.

Beside them, Ingrid muttered, “Heads up,” and Felix had only a moment to turn in the direction she’d indicated before another couple joined their huddled group of three.

Arm in arm, the two others who’d been announced with him and Bel stood confidently among the Kingdom’s nobles, either ignorant of or uncaring toward the foul looks originating from the lords of their own countries.

“Good evening!” The red-haired one - _Ferdinand_ , Felix recalled, accompanied by a spark of irritation - announced with a bright smile. “My, I must say that your future King and Archbishop make quite the duo. Simply stunning.”

Felix’s sword arm inched downward.

“Lord Ferdinand!” Sylvain exclaimed a bit too loudly, voice cracking, and then cleared his throat. “And Lady Hilda. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Hilda chortled, “You don’t have to be so _formal_ , Sylvain. I already told Ferdinand that we were friends.” 

Felix and Ingrid both looked to Sylvain, eyes dull and unsurprised; in hindsight - taking into account this woman’s gaudy outfit and demeanor - of _course_ they knew each other.

“Indeed,” Ferdinand said. “We were discussing this fine showing, and Lady Hilda brought up a rather interesting point: she has become friendly with Lord Sylvain over the years, and yet has never been introduced to her Kingdom counterpart.”

Ferdinand and Hilda turned their attention to Felix in unison, and he stiffened.

“Right? Don’t you find that odd, Lord Felix?” Hilda asked, but there was something disingenuous about her overly inquisitive tone.

“No,” he replied. He’d avoided such introductions diligently and purposefully.

“So, since Ferdinand needed to meet all of you, too, I thought it best for us to come on over,” Hilda continued as if Felix hadn’t spoken. “Sylvain, won’t you be a dear and introduce us?”

Now that he’d had the chance to observe them, Felix was certain that Hilda, at least, was fully aware of the stir they were causing; elsewhere in the hall, the lines that separated the nations’ dignitaries had grown blurrier still, further aggravating those who disapproved of such mingling.

No matter what ulterior motives she might have, Felix could respect her commitment to individualism - it was a rare trait among the nobility.

“Of course,” Sylvain said, guiltily avoiding his friends’ stares. “Guys, this is Lady Hilda of House Goneril-” she inclined her head, “-and Lord Ferdinand of House Aegir.”

Ferdinand presented a deep bow. In the Empire’s section, the Imperial Ministers’ faces darkened - but none more than Marquis Vestra’s, even beyond that of Duke Aegir, Felix noted.

“This,” Sylvain went on, gesturing to Ingrid, “is Lady Ingrid of House Galatea, my beautiful partner for the evening.”

A faint blush spread across Ingrid’s face; she saluted and said diplomatically, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And finally, Lord Felix of House Fraldarius,” Sylvain finished, shooting Felix a significant sidelong glance.

Felix gave a curt nod in appeasement, orienting his body so that he could keep one eye on the dance floor; the couples had changed partners while he was distracted, and it looked like Bel was closing herself off to the Imperial Princess. A wise choice, if what he’d heard about Edelgard was even partially correct.

“It is lovely to meet you both,” Ferdinand said, beaming with satisfaction. “I am truly gladdened that we five could be acquainted.”

His sincerity grated on Felix in an annoyingly familiar way. On impulse, he asked, “How do you know Lady Byleth?”

“I’ve been wondering that, too!” Hilda chimed in, slapping Ferdinand lightly on the arm. “You’ve only been in the city for two weeks, and the Holy Maiden was completely isolated until the last moon, right?”

 _Wrong_ , Felix thought, resisting the urge to bring a hand to his neck. Not even Sylvain knew that he’d secretly switched out his tailor-approved white ascot for Bel’s scarf, carefully folding it in such a way that it was a near-perfect twin to the intended garment.

Ferdinand laughed good-naturedly. “I had the fortune to meet her while visiting my delightful cousin, Lady Flayn! Oh,” he said in response to his peers’ surprised reactions, “were you not aware that Lady Flayn and Lord Seteth hailed from House Aegir?”

With an owlish look at Felix, he continued in haste, “And let me _assure_ you that I have no designs on Lady Byleth - my own partner is just there-” he pointed to the clustered group of ministers, and the dark-haired Marquis Vestra seemed mildly alarmed to have been singled out.

“Oh, no,” Hilda muttered under her breath, but she wasn’t addressing Ferdinand; her eyes were on the dance floor - in a panic, Felix’s snapped to it, as well - where the two couples were gravitating back toward the center for another partner swap.

At first, he saw nothing wrong with it, until Hilda clarified, “I _told_ him not to make a scene,” and he knew to focus on Claude.

The Alliance’s heir was wearing a wide, roguish grin that wouldn’t have been out of place on Sylvain, striding naturally toward Edelgard - and then he made a grab at Bel.

Felix’s world came screeching to a halt amid memories of her unmoving and bloody in his arms, so _small_ as he held her, breath rattling in her chest.

His hand was on his sword before he’d fully processed the picture, one foot inside the dance floor and ready to propel him forward, when Ingrid caught him by the arm. He rounded on her furiously, a snarl on his lips, but her wide eyes communicated without words: _Stop! Political nightmare!_

Her forced pause lent him a moment of clarity, and he used it to reassess the situation - Claude had simply grasped Bel’s hand and led her into the third leg of the Minuet; there were no hidden blades, no twisted augur spikes, and Bel was perfectly healthy - if a bit ruffled.

She was safe. There was no danger.

Once again, his hand dropped from his sword. Ingrid relaxed her posture and exhaled; beside them, Sylvain, Ferdinand, and Hilda seemed enraptured by the events unfolding in the dance, oblivious to the disaster so closely averted.

And it _would_ have been a disaster, Felix knew. Most of the nobles present, including him, carried ceremonial swords of rank at their hips. The swords were ornate, expensive, and - most importantly - useless, bearing dull edges and metals unfit for combat. But, for the purposes of his mission tonight, Rufus had granted Felix a special permission that was not lightly awarded; the blade presently inside his decorated sheath was real, live steel.

Outside of an absolute emergency, he’d been told - by Rufus, Rodrigue, and even Dimitri - that _under no circumstances_ was he to reveal this information to anyone else, for fear of a diplomatic catastrophe. 

He nodded to Ingrid, thankful for her presence, and she returned it with a shaky, relieved smile.

“Now _that_ was a smooth move,” Sylvain said appreciatively, still watching the dance, as he draped one arm over Ingrid’s shoulders. She promptly wriggled out from under it. “Lady Byleth looks like she wants to kill him, though.”

Hilda sighed dramatically. “That makes two of us.”

 _Three_ , Felix thought, scowling. While he disliked Bel’s Church persona, he was doubly mistrustful of how easily Claude was able to push past it.

“Duke Riegan is going to lecture us for _so long_ later,” Hilda complained, leaning heavily on Ferdinand’s arm, but then she perked up again. “I bet Lorenz is suffering, though. He so wanted to petition the Archbishop for oracles again this year.”

Ferdinand weathered the action graciously, though he did admonish, “Lady Hilda, it is most uncharitable to relish in the hardships of others.”

Felix felt like throwing up. This man could _never_ be allowed to meet Dimitri.

Back on the dance floor, Claude and Bel were nearing the Kingdom’s section. They were embroiled in some sort of contest of wills; Bel looked defensive and Claude determined as the two twirled by, but then, out of nowhere - she smiled.

A real one. The kind that Felix coveted like precious stones. He wondered what Claude had said to coax it out of her - what _he_ could say in order to see more of them.

“Wow! I didn’t know Church people could _smile_ ,” Hilda said, turning to Felix. “She’s gorgeous. I can see why you’re courting her!”

Sylvain barked out a laugh before he could restrain himself; beside him, Ingrid made a sound like she was choking.

“We’re not-” Felix began, ready to deny it for the second time that day, but Hilda pressed on without a care,

“But does it ever get awkward in the bedroom? You know, since the Goddess is always watching, or whatever?”

Felix reared back like she’d stabbed him, reddening so fast he feared steam might pour from his ears. Sylvain’s breath came out as a thin gasp, more startled than tickled this time, and his eyes went to Felix like he was watching a wild stallion; would it settle, buck, or flee?

Meanwhile, Ingrid didn’t make any sound at all. Her ears were cherry-bright, one hand covering her mouth and the other wrapped around her middle.

“ _Lady Hilda_ ,” Ferdinand wheezed, possibly more mortified than the other three combined, “I realize that customs are different in Leicester, but you _cannot_ suggest that- an unmarried nobleman- with a _Church official_ -”

Hilda leaned her head on Ferdinand’s shoulder, looking up at him with a fiendish smirk. “ _Unmarried_? My goodness, and here I thought the Empire, at least, was moving into the modern age- no offense,” she said with a sideways glance to the Kingdom half of the group.

Felix glowered at her, tight-lipped, and struggled to think of _anything_ she’d said that wasn’t offensive. To keep a lid on his temper, he put her out of sight - literally - by turning to the dance floor-

He was just in time to see the Minuet end and Claude lift Bel’s hand to his lips.

Their little gathering had seen and heard too much at that point to really react, but Felix did give Ingrid a meaningful look. _You should have just let me kill him_.

\---Part 2: Byleth---

Byleth returned to her friends, smarting from several flavors of manipulation and seeking comfort, but instead came upon a scene wherein Ingrid and Ferdinand - when had he arrived? - were red as roast tomatoes, Felix looked ready for murder, and Sylvain was standing like he was surrounded by armed bear traps.

“Welcome back, Your Grace,” said a woman with voluminous pink hair and a joyful expression. She tilted her head to Sylvain and requested sweetly, “Oh, if you would?”

Byleth didn’t wait for any introductions; she went straight to Felix, winding their arms together, and he completed the process eagerly. She hoped that the action had appeared natural, just two partners reuniting at a party, and not the desperate beeline it had seemed in her mind.

The effect was immediate, though; her thoughts, buzzing and frantic, settled to a volume that actually let her process the voices around her. Similarly, Felix’s hunched shoulders went slack and he let out a long, hissing breath. 

_Safe_ , she thought, and then, when he looked down at her with receding anxiety and a slanted almost-smile, _home_.

“-is Lady Byleth, our Holy Maiden,” Sylvain was saying with a sweeping gesture in her direction. Byleth realized with a fresh spike of adrenaline that he’d been talking this whole time.

“Ah,” she said, aiming for a confident tone while she scanned the woman’s outfit for any identifying markers. “It is a pleasure to meet you- Lady Hilda,” she finished upon spying a neck clasp in the shape of House Goneril’s family crest.

With a private apology to Seteth, she admitted to herself that perhaps all of those half-attended history lectures _were_ important.

“Likewise! I _loved_ watching you dance,” Hilda gushed, tugging animatedly on Ferdinand’s arm. “Sorry about Claude; he’s just like that, you know?”

Byleth kept her face carefully blank, but she quite disagreed that everything Claude had said and done could be summed up so flippantly.

“Speaking of that: I wish I could stay and chat, but I should really go find him before Holst does,” Hilda said, grimacing. “Ferdinand, won’t you join me? You can distract my brother with fancy tea talk.”

Ferdinand, uncharacteristically quiet up to this point, nodded shallowly. “Of- of course,” he agreed with only an echo of his usual exuberance. Just before she dragged him away, he looked to Byleth and Felix and said somberly, “Please accept my deepest apologies.”

Byleth watched them leave, thoroughly mystified by his behavior, and turned to the rest of the group for answers. “Why did he-”

“Not important,” Sylvain said quickly, waving his hand like he was clearing the air. “How was your dance? Lord Claude pulled a fast one, huh?”

“He surely did,” Dimitri said, joining them with a flustered but intact smile. “Luckily, Lady Edelgard and I are somewhat accustomed to his antics. Are you all right, Your Grace?”

Her mouth twitched; if Dimitri checked up on her one more time, she thought she might explode. “I am fine,” she said calmly, and then, to Sylvain, “I think Lord Claude simply wanted to talk to me.”

She checked their immediate vicinity, found it acceptably empty, and near-whispered, “He claims that the Alliance had nothing to do with the attack.”

The atmosphere changed abruptly as everyone’s minds switched from social function to political espionage.

Felix’s grip on her arm tightened.

“He _knows_ about it?” Ingrid asked incredulously, glancing to the Alliance’s section; like the others, it was slowly dispersing now that the opening dance had ended.

Given the appalled look on Dimitri’s face, Byleth informed them gently, “So does Lady Edelgard,” but that didn’t stop the exasperated grunt that rasped out of his throat.

“Wow,” Sylvain said flatly. “Our national security needs some work.”

Dimitri shook his head, took a deep, fortifying breath, and addressed the group as a whole, “I’ll tell Rodrigue of this development. For now, let us all behave normally; Sylvain, I believe you have a bridge to mend with Count Rowe.”

Sylvain’s expression twisted like he’d just licked a lemon, but he nevertheless accepted the order with a bow.

“I’ll make sure that it is,” Ingrid intoned, and the two departed as solemnly as a funeral march.

“And you have many, many introductions in your future, I am afraid,” Dimitri said apologetically to Byleth. “But it must be done - and, fortunately, only once. Felix-”

“I _know_ ,” Felix snapped. “I’ll be watching.”

Byleth was aware of her obligations; like the night of the Gautiers’ party, she’d have to meet and greet strangers until her jaw went numb. Part of her wanted to hand off the responsibility to Sylvain again - he’d been so good at it - but she _would_ need to polish this particular skill set eventually. 

“I understand, Your Highness,” she said, dipping her chin.

Dimitri’s customary smile returned as he prepared to head back out into the fray. “Do not go too far; I’m sure Lady Rhea will want to speak with you, as well,” he said, and - mercifully - turned away before he could see the ghost of a frown on Byleth’s face.

Across the dance floor, several heads of House were already casting subtle glances at her, trying to be the first to deduce where she would begin her tour.

She sagged against Felix’s side; he shifted to accommodate her without question or complaint, bearing her weight as easily as she’d borne his, so long ago in the forest.

“Are we really going to see the Archbishop?” He asked quietly, angling himself so that her moment of respite wouldn’t be visible to onlookers.

Byleth squinted up at him, insulted that he would even _ask_ , but then saw the teasing smile on his lips. She breathed a laugh, righting her posture and shoring up her defenses in the same way Dimitri had.

“Where should we start?” She prompted, scanning the various clusters that were forming around the hall. Her first choice would be significant. Empire or Alliance? By rank or by association?

“I have an idea,” Felix said, but he wasn’t looking at the nobles on the ground floor. She followed his eyes to a seating area in the corner of the hall’s second tier, shaded by the floor of the third tier and partially obscured by a support pillar. “We could let _them_ come to _you._ "

Byleth had to admit that the idea was tempting; a quiet area to sit, and no walking? But- “The dignitaries wouldn’t be pleased,” she said regretfully.

“Are they ever?” Felix asked with a straight face. “It’s also tactically sound. Look-” he indicated the overhang and the pillar, “-high visibility inside, low visibility outside. That should save us both a lecture.”

She could have argued that visibility, at least on her behalf, was sort of the point of her attendance this evening - that it would be scandalous for them to upend tradition twice in one night - but she didn’t. 

Instead she hummed like she was giving it thorough consideration, then acquiesced lightly, “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> future claude: *says anything annoying to felix*
> 
> future felix: i almost murdered you last winter


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back! Thank you for being patient with my terrible time math skills!

\---Part 1: Felix---

She was good at this. He had to admit it, even if it pained him; she could don her mask in a matter of seconds, becoming the gentle, soft-spoken Holy Maiden that everyone expected to see. In the next moment, with an official’s withdrawal, she could sink against his side and melt into Bel again, lamenting their situation.

Their quiet corner on the second tier provided the ideal environment for these transformations; they had clear sight lines to all three of the Grand Hall’s exits, cover from the upper tiers, and a long, conspicuous walkway between them and the only angle of approach: a staircase that led up from the ground floor.

He wouldn’t pretend that her duality didn’t bother him. Watching others play diplomacy was among his least favorite pastimes even when it wasn’t _her_ doing the playing. The platitudes - the fakeness - wore him down like sandpaper: gradually and inevitably. But-

But he’d have to get used to it if he planned on sticking around her.

So Felix remained at her side, stiff and quietly disgruntled, through the procession of Imperial Ministers and Great Lords, and savored the intervals between them.

“Incorrect,” he said when their latest visitor had passed out of hearing range. “Lord Goneril wields a heavy axe. But you were close- he fills a similar combat role to Sylvain.”

Bel clicked her tongue, watching the tall man’s distinctive pink hair disappear over the lip of the staircase. “How can you tell?”

He shrugged his shoulders to indicate them. “The heavy axe and the heavy spear require some different muscle groups. You’ll have to see many fighters and learn the variations in their builds."

“That’s always your answer,” she groaned.

“Experience _is_ almost always the answer,” he said, amused, then immediately cringed at how much like his father he’d just sounded. Thoughts of Rodrigue brought up thoughts of the attack, and those in turn gave rise to his impending deployment; he exhaled slowly.

Bel leaned forward, eyes now tinged with worry as she observed him. “What is it?”

He glanced down at her, reluctant to speak but also unwilling to lie. He’d wanted to wait until after Midwinter to tell her - to enjoy the night without thinking about leaving - but it had been slowly chewing through his mind since his father had brought it up in the carriage. 

Deployment was part of a knight’s regular duties. He’d met Bel on the way back from one, after all, and he was overdue for another. This would be a regular occurrence. Just like he was building up a tolerance for politics, she’d eventually have to build up a tolerance to his absence. This aversion to disappointing her couldn’t stop him forever.

“Did you believe Claude about the attack?” He asked instead. _You damn coward_.

She surveyed the hall, pursing her lips when she found her target; Claude moved naturally among the guests on his own introduction tour, all easy smiles and laughs.

“I think so,” she said, drumming her fingers on her thighs. “He was really good at- deflection.” 

He watched as a faint blush bloomed high on her cheeks, spreading slowly toward her ears and down her neck. It complemented the swirling violet patterns well, he thought.

“He unbalanced me right away, so it was hard to tell, but-” she tilted her head, voice wry and self-deprecating, “-yes, I believed him.”

Felix regarded her silently for a moment. “Of course he had the upper hand,” he said, only realizing its bluntness when she flinched away.

“No, that’s not-” he sighed at his own lack of discretion. “People call him ‘The Master Tactician.’ He’s been studying debate since childhood - he and Edelgard both.” His hands, hidden at his sides, clenched. _You’ve been locked in a tower_ . _Is it any wonder they exploited your ignorance?_

He could shield her from an assassin, but he was of no help in social scenarios. That was the Archbishop’s job; it was Dimitri’s job. They should have prepared her better for this.

Bel puffed out a tiny laugh. “So, again, you’re saying I lack experience?”

“I’m _saying_ ,” he clarified, reining in his anger, “you got enough of a read to make a decision, and now we have something new to use in the investigation. You did well.”

She straightened up, brightening under the praise but obviously not expecting it. A soft twin of her earlier smile tugged at her lips, and Felix couldn’t help but mirror her.

“Thanks,” she said, knocking their knees together lightly. “Looks like your training is working.”

He agreed with a thin chuckle, searching for another target on which to quiz her, when two prime examples crested the walkway.

“Lord Ferdinand and Marquis Vestra,” he prompted with a jerk of his chin, and then Bel was back in analysis mode. She focused more on the breadth of their shoulders this time; good.

She scrutinized the two men as they approached, disguising it as a placid greeting, and then whispered, “Ferdinand is a heavy lancer and Hubert is- a noncombatant?”

 _Hubert_? Felix blinked, momentarily distracted, but still managed to mutter before they arrived, “Correct.”

“Lady Byleth, Lord Felix,” Ferdinand hailed them with an Adrestian bow just as dramatic as his first one. “Allow me to introduce my fiance, Marquis Hubert von Vestra.” The minister offered a much shallower bow; merely an inclination of his head. “Hubert, this is Lord Felix of House Fraldarius.”

Felix returned the slight gesture, taking Marquis Vestra’s measure in the process. Bel was right; the man didn’t participate in combat directly, but he _was_ the Empire’s preeminent mathematical strategist. Aside from conducting the Emperor’s darkest, most clandestine business, he’d probably at least laid eyes on all of the country’s battle formations - all of the skirmish setups Felix met at a border conflict.

“Don’t you think,” Marquis Vestra said, sliding his keen eyes from the second tier to the rulers’ dais, then back, “that putting the Goddess’s vessel so far out of reach might send the wrong sort of message?”

Felix drew himself up, misliking the marquis’s taunting cadence.

“No,” he said icily.

“Lord Ferdinand. Hubert,” Bel greeted them, bowing to the appropriate degree. “I had no idea you two were engaged.”

“ _Hubert_?” Ferdinand repeated with the same level of incredulity that Felix felt, staring open-mouthed at his partner. “Have you outpaced me? Goodness, this is a first. In any case-”

He sat down nearby, dragging Marquis Vestra with him. “I cannot fault your unawareness, Your Grace. Our status is not public knowledge outside the Empire.”

“Why not?” Bel asked, leaning away from them nearly imperceptibly. Felix honed in, catching the fleeting distress in her features; something was making her uncomfortable. Something that wasn’t there the last time she’d spoken with Ferdinand.

“Ah, well, you know how precious inheritance is to the aristocracy,” Ferdinand replied with a knowing smile, “and I am the only one of my siblings who can pass on the Aegir name. Therefore my father disapproves of our union.”

She made a small, sympathetic sound. “That’s terrible. Simply because neither of you can bear children?”

“That is one issue, yes,” Marquis Vestra said with a faint, sharp smile. “The Prime Minister also doesn’t wish to hand his only son to the political opposition.” He chuckled at this, seeming to find it much more amusing than his partner did.

“I admit that House Aegir’s population issue is more dire than most, but is this not a concern among the Kingdom’s incumbent generation, as well?” Ferdinand asked, turning to Felix. “I am surprised that you, yourself, are not yet engaged.”

Felix could say the same. Luckily, one of the only upsides to his father’s fixation on Dimitri and House Blaiddyd was that there had never been much pressure on the courtship front. Many times, Felix had wondered if the topic of marriage and children was a bridge too far for the two of them to cross. A scar too deep.

He grunted in acknowledgement.

“If you do not mind my asking,” Ferdinand went on, shifting his attention back and forth between Felix and Bel, “what are you two waiting for?”

Marquis Vestra ground out a laugh, leaning down to whisper something in his partner’s ear, and Ferdinand reddened to almost the same shade as his hair, covering his mouth with both hands.

“Oh, my! Please forgive me-” 

Felix stiffened and averted his eyes, preparing his usual rebuttal, but the somber tone of Bel’s voice brought him back:

“It’s all right.”

He’d expected a fierce denial, but she just sounded- sad. Glancing down, he saw not her Church mask, but a gentle, resigned expression that tightened his chest.

“Just like you said, Lord Ferdinand: I cannot fault your unawareness,” she said with a conciliatory smile. “To avoid your House’s predicament with Father Seteth and Sister Flayn, Kingdom nobles and Church officials do not intermarry.”

Ferdinand relaxed at her assurance, though he still shot Felix a confused, vaguely indignant look. “I- I see,” he said, holding Felix’s gaze as he continued to address Bel, “Do keep in mind, Your Grace, that while it is admirable to uphold tradition, one must not betray the call of one’s heart.”

Only after he was done speaking did his eyes flick to Bel’s and a sunny grin break out on his face. “Additionally, I would be overjoyed if you could refer to me informally.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. Ferdinand, it seemed, shared more with Dimitri than relentless candor; they could both get under Felix’s skin with nothing but flowery words.

“Of course,” Bel agreed with a nod. “And- I will keep that in mind.”

“Please do,” Marquis Vestra commented glibly. “After all, it is rather late for the Archbishop to enforce such separations.”

Ferdinand blanched, whirling on his partner. “Oh! And you reprimanded _me_!” He turned back, scandalized and unnerved. “Ignore that, if you would - a true gentleman puts no stock in such baseless rumors.”

Perhaps sensing the uncomfortable atmosphere, he proceeded to launch into a history of Castle Blaiddyd’s architecture and the various battles it had weathered. Meanwhile, Marquis Vestra looked pleased with himself, remaining quiet for the rest of the exchange.

Bel humored Ferdinand with timely interjections and questions, but she also stole frequent, bewildered glances at Felix, beseeching him for answers he couldn’t provide; after all, they were probably thinking the same thing:

_What rumors?_

\---Part 2: Byleth---

They were saved when the doors to the Grand Hall swung open. Much like at the Gautiers’ party, guests began to spread out to different parts of the castle now that the introductions and pleasantries had finished.

Ferdinand, with Hubert in tow, took the opportunity to excuse himself and headed immediately to the orchestra on the other side of the second tier; Byleth watched with complicated feelings as he rescued the singer from a boisterous and clearly drunk Rufus, escorting her down to the ground floor.

She often did so, but as the Lord Regent tottered gracelessly around the musicians - who were doing their very best to ignore his presence entirely - she mourned the pointlessness of her Wednesday mornings. 

“I wouldn’t mind if she killed him,” Felix said idly as the scene unfolded.

Byleth snorted a laugh behind her hand, accepting his help to stand and then smoothing the folds in her skirt. Below, she spotted some of the other noble heirs leaving the hall in the same direction, and the mirth promptly faded.

She knew where they were going. It was her own next destination, as well: a formal dinner that included most of her age group.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, offering his elbow. “This is the easy part. Other people talk for you.”

She eagerly entwined their arms but doubted his words. Mercedes’s many and varied lessons on cutlery and dining etiquette clanked around in her mind as they weaved between clumps of partygoers.

“Hey,” she whispered when they’d made it past the bulk of the migrating guests. “What was Hubert talking about?”

Felix shrugged, steering them onto a smaller, less crowded side hall. “No idea. I don’t pay attention to rumors.” He glanced down, noting her worry, and added, “It’s possible he was just trying to get to you - like Claude. There could be nothing to it.”

“Perhaps,” Byleth mused, mildly reassured, but remained preoccupied by the implications; in all her life, she’d heard minimal negative remarks about Rhea, yet these foreign diplomats possessed them in droves. “Edelgard said something odd to me, too. Do you ever feel like the Empire knows more about us than we do?”

“Yes,” he answered at once. “Certain attitudes here make espionage investment- difficult.” He scowled. “What did Edelgard say?”

They were coming up on an open dining room, already thrumming with activity, so Byleth deferred their conversation with a quick, “Later.”

The room, decorated with the sort of sparse, militaristic design she’d come to expect of the Kingdom, was large enough to hold a massive, rectangular table of carved ebony wood; a castle steward had them seated in short order, placing Byleth at the midpoint of the table and Felix to her left.

At one end, Dimitri was chatting pleasantly with his neighbors - two women sporting the family crests of Edmund and Ordelia, respectively - and greeted Byleth with a nod when their eyes met. Edelgard did much the same down at the other end, and that left Byleth with a disquieting theory on who her own dining companions might be.

Just as she thought, Claude slipped into the opposite midpoint seat moments later, waggling his fingers coyly across the table. When Hilda took the adjacent spot, Felix went rigid.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Claude said, winking, then turned to speak with the person to his left, a woman with long red hair and vibrant tattoos on her face and neck - the princess of Brigid, Byleth recalled around her annoyance.

Her own neighbor, Ferdinand’s green-haired ‘compatriot’ from the entrance hall, had one elbow propped up on the table and his chin in his hand, peering sidelong at Byleth through sleepy eyes.

“Is it true that you can change the future?” He asked abruptly, stifling a yawn.

The polite conversations happening across from them ceased in the space of a second. Byleth fidgeted with the napkin in her lap, unsure how she should to answer; the existence of omens wasn’t a _secret_ , per se, but-

“Lin, I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about Church stuff,” the blue-haired man from the entrance hall said in what he'd probably meant to be a whisper - however, since the vicinity had gone quiet, he may as well have shouted.

Behind him, and though she feigned ignorance and nonchalance, Byleth saw the corners of Edelgard’s eyes twitch.

Claude put one hand up, grinning. “No, I want to hear this- _can_ you change the future, Your Grace?”

A glance to her left showed that Felix was regarding her just as curiously; so, with six people staring at her and no exit strategy, she decided to just commit.

“Yes, that’s true, but only in certain circumstances,” she explained, going queasy at the memory of her last omen. “It is a rare occurrence.”

Her neighbor hummed in interest, one side of his mouth slanting upward. “Fascinating,” he said, dipping his head as much as he could in his current pose. “Linhardt von Hevring, physician and blood scholar - could you tell me more about these required circumstances?”

“Ah-” she leaned slightly toward Felix, who braced her shoulder with his own. Under the table, concealed by a blue velvet drape, his fingers curled protectively around her hand, settling some of her nervous energy.

She took a deep breath. “They are called ‘omens.’ I receive them from the Goddess when I am able to-” bloody snow; panting breaths; the scrape of fangs on bone, “-prevent someone’s death.”

Felix’s thumb, which had been rubbing a gentle pattern into her palm, stilled. Similarly, the intrigued looks on their peers’ faces turned a degree toward sobriety.

The princess of Brigid was the sole exception to this, exclaiming, “That must mean you have great usefulness on the battlefield!”

Byleth had never thought of that, but the sensory overload of a single omen was already overwhelming; she couldn’t even imagine what it would be like with thousands of people in danger all at once.

“I’ve never been in battle,” she said, filing that information away to bring up with Dimitri later. “But you speak wisdom, Lady Petra.”

Linhardt nodded shallowly, again from his comfortable position. “Indeed. A prophet who can save lives; no wonder the Kingdom affords you such privileges.” His words might have sounded accusatory were it not for his flat, nearly inflection-less voice, which lent his speech a harmlessly inquisitive quality.

“So these ‘omens’ require no sacrifice or incantation, unlike augury? Do they have a cost at all? Say - would you mind if I took a sample of your blood? It’s for my research-”

The entire table quieted as Dimitri stood to give the dinner address, holding a champagne flute as delicately as he would a baby bird.

While he spoke, Byleth calmed her breathing, gratefully squeezing Felix’s hand. She was absolutely unprepared to answer Linhardt’s final barrage of questions. The sanctity of omen knowledge was a grey area, but she knew that the vessels’ blood couldn’t be granted without a specific dispensation from Rhea; not even the Holy Maiden - not even the ruler of Faerghus - had that power.

Servers quietly ringed the table and began setting out food and drink, and by the time Byleth honed back in on the discussion happening around her, its direction had taken a turn away from prophecy.

“-can’t believe you asked the Archbishop to _dance_ ,” Hilda was teasing Claude, pointing her fork at him. “You’re really pushing your luck with Lorenz.”

“It was worth a shot!” Claude insisted, placing both hands over his chest like the fork had stabbed him. “What’s the worst that could’ve happened?”

“Excommunication,” came a dour, unamused voice from Edelgard’s side of the table; the speaker, a purple-haired man that Byleth recognized as Count Gloucester’s son, held Claude’s eyes for a few long moments before returning to his fellows.

Felix seemed uninterested in the topic, pushing his food around his plate with his left hand since his right was occupied. Despite his projected aloofness, he continued to hold her, providing a quiet, steady sanctuary when the ambient noise became too much.

On her other side, Linhardt was similarly disengaged from both the chatter and his dinner, instead watching Byleth like a hawk - and she got the distinct impression that he was never more than an instant away from renewing his interrogation on holy magic.

She took tiny, sparse bites of her food for politeness’s sake, but talk of omens had killed her appetite. After the fourth course passed without any change to her unsettled stomach, she gave up.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly to Linhardt, who perked up at the attention. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your hair color- do you have divine blood, as well?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Well, yes. Many old families in the Empire do. You didn’t know that?”

Byleth shook her head, making another mental note: hound Seteth about Adrestian pedigree.

“Before the Kingdom’s founding, it was a mark of honor to carry divine blood. Obviously that changed, but-” Linhardt raised a shoulder half-heartedly, “-one cannot un-scramble that particular egg.”

He gazed down the table to Ferdinand, shaking his head. “Hevring carries the most by far, and many of us are born with this coloration. The fact that Aegir and Hresvelg were the two most recently afflicted is quite the unfortunate example of statistical probability- hm? What?”

Byleth tilted her head, frowning. “When did House Hresvelg produce a vessel?” To her knowledge, the last one before Rhea - the twelfth vessel of Saint Indech - had come from within the Church.

“Ah,” Linhardt said, and then after several mild expressions of confusion, contemplation, and understanding flashed across his face, repeated more gravely, “-ah.”

“Allow me to venture a guess,” he said, lifting his chin from his hand for the first time. “You’ve never met your grandparents, right?”

Again, someone from the Empire wanted to know about her extended family; Byleth sighed.

“Astute as ever, Linhardt,” Edelgard said from behind them, her diplomatic voice edged with irritation. “If only you’d put that keen perception to a more productive use.”

Byleth suppressed an undignified yelp; she hadn’t even noticed anyone approaching. “Lady Edelgard-” she cleared her throat, “-what can we do for you?”

Linhardt’s eyes flicked from Edelgard to Byleth impassively. Instead of greeting his princess, he made a show of swiveling in his chair until he was faced the other way, toward his blue-haired partner.

“I’m here to claim my dance, Your Grace,” Edelgard said with a smile. “I have quite the story to tell - and you’ll want to hear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hubert whispering to ferdinand: no babe its a friends to lovers slow burn


	20. Chapter 20

\---Part 1: Byleth---

The corridors were much less crowded on the way back to the Grand Hall; save for a few clusters of people gathered around paintings or other furnishings, most partygoers had disseminated to the far reaches of the castle by now. This allowed Byleth to admire the winter plants and colorful, candlelit glass ornaments that decorated the walls for the occasion - details she’d missed while focused on escaping the congestion.

“Do you like them?” Edelgard asked, nodding toward the hanging red flowers. “My father brought them as a gift. They grow in the foothills of the Oghma Mountains, but only on the Empire’s side of the border. He thought it would be a symbolic gesture.”

The two walked arm-in-arm down the main hall, drawing many a peculiar gaze as they went. Byleth supposed that Edelgard could simply be unfamiliar with the castle’s layout, and thus ignorant of its discreet side passages, but something about the princess’s unfaltering stride made their path look intentional.

Byleth glanced over, taking in her partner’s stiff shoulders and tight expression. “You don’t agree with the Emperor?”

“ _ I _ think,” Edelgard said resolutely, “that the time for pretty symbolism between our two nations has long since ended.”

She paused to offer a polite nod to a couple in passing. “Successive generations of leadership in both Adrestia and Faerghus have allowed our diplomatic relations to languish and wither. And for what?” She asked, then answered her own question, “A centuries-old squabble.”

Byleth couldn’t stop the disbelieving smirk that twisted her lips or the flat words that escaped them, “A deeply bitter conflict over the long term stewardship of holy magic is a ‘squabble’ to you-?” 

_ Ah _ . Too late, she knew two things: one was that her mask was slipping dangerously far in Edelgard’s presence. The other was that some of her earlier annoyance from the Minuet evidently remained.

“-Your Highness?” She added quickly, hoping it would take some of the sting out.

But, far from the rebuke Byleth was expecting, Edelgard only laughed - a bright, melodic sound that seemed to surprise even her.

“You’re right; it was not my intention to make light of the issue,” Edelgard conceded. “I only wanted to suggest that it need not preclude a civil relationship. Did you know that the Empire and the Kingdom had regular correspondence only fifty years ago?”

Byleth looked over sharply; according to the histories she’d learned, the two countries’ differences spanned nearly a thousand years.

“It wasn’t exactly friendly, mind you, but it  _ was _ productive. We had trade agreements, open borders - even mutual aid, at times.” Edelgard’s voice had grown wistful and her stare distant.

“What changed?” Byleth asked, privately afraid of the answer. Fifty years prior was a low point for the Church; the sitting Archbishop, the twelfth vessel of Saint Indech, had recently disappeared and a new Saint wouldn’t ascend for another half-decade. Rhea spoke gravely of the era, of the dwindling pool of bishops and priests capable of magic in lieu of a vessel to supply it.

Edelgard’s hazy eyes focused again. “What indeed,” she said, turning them off of the main corridor. “That’s part of the story I wish to tell you- when we reach our destination.”

_ Our destination _ . Byleth, caught up in this impromptu history lesson, properly checked their surroundings for the first time in a few minutes - and found herself in an entirely different hall than she’d expected. Farther down, next to an open parlor room door, Hubert stood with his hands clasped professionally behind his back.

“We’re not going dancing,” Byleth realized.

“No.” The corners of Edelgard’s mouth twitched. “But I do hope Lord Claude spends a while searching for us in the Grand Hall.”

With a twinge of anxiety, Byleth wondered if Felix would be searching, as well - if she should really be allowing this, given the circumstances.

“Lady Edelgard,” she said carefully. “You are aware of my recent difficulties. I don’t think my, uh-”  _ Advisor? Bodyguard? _ “-I’m unsure about the nature of this meeting.”

“Oh?” Edelgard asked, looking up slyly. “Tell me, Lady Byleth: based on your own perceptions, do you believe you’re safe with me?”

Byleth slowed her pace, weighing her thoughts like she’d done in the carriage before the attack. Edelgard seemed trustworthy, but so had Tomas. Granted, Byleth had a much bigger sample of Edelgard’s behavior by this point and - she’d like to think - a more informed opinion. There was still a sliver of doubt wriggling in the back of her mind, though, composed mostly of the unsettling aura that Edelgard and Hubert carried around with them.

“What a long moment of hesitation,” Edelgard said dryly. “A lesser woman might be insulted by such a thing.”

If not for the pair of partygoers within earshot, Byleth would have snorted. “I have my reservations, but I don’t think you would try to kill me in such a public place,” she muttered, earning a reserved giggle from the princess.

“You’re right, if a bit blunt,” Edelgard confirmed. “Dozens of people have seen us together. If you were to disappear, I would be the primary suspect; does that ease your mind?”

“I- yes,” Byleth said, shocked by how much it actually  _ did _ ease her mind. Of all the things she’d been expecting from Edelgard, consideration was not among them.

Hubert bowed his head when they passed, saying softly, “Your Highness. Your Grace. Everything is as you requested.”

Edelgard nodded, escorting Byleth into the parlor room and closing the door behind them. “Good,” she said firmly. “I had a feeling you would be reasonable.”

Byleth tossed an uncertain glance over her shoulder. “He’s not joining us?”

When she turned back, Edelgard had seated herself in one of two high-backed armchairs placed before the hearth, which shed a low but pleasant light and heat. Between the chairs was a small, circular table arranged neatly with a two-person tea set. The cups were already full of a steaming, light-colored liquid, and an adjacent tray of scones looked similarly fresh.

“Hubert is there to make sure we’re not interrupted,” Edelgard assured her, uncovering the sugar bowl and poising a pair of tongs over it. “Please, sit. How do you take your tea? It’s a mild Imperial green.”

Byleth sat, surveying the rest of the room - most of its other furniture had been pushed against the back wall, creating a wide open space around the hearth - before replying, “One cube, thank you,” and sliding her eyes from the odd layout to Edelgard’s face. “Before you tell your story, I have some questions.”

“Of course,” the princess acquiesced, dropping a sugar cube into both cups and stirring them gently. “Since I took you prematurely from the successors’ banquet, that’s only fair; however, I think that they will be addressed in my story.”

“Why are you and Hubert so interested in my family? Why was Lord Linhardt?” Byleth asked anyway, undeterred. “And- earlier, Hubert mentioned a rumor about the Archbishop. Can you tell me any more about that?”

Edelgard listened calmly, setting the sugar tongs down on a saucer with a soft clink. “Those questions have the same answer,” she said, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “As I said, Your Grace, it is quite the story. May I begin?”

Byleth settled reluctantly into her chair and dipped her head. Edelgard seemed to have a pace in mind for this conversation, and perhaps it would be better just to follow it - she could, Byleth reasoned, just inject any pertinent questions where appropriate.

The fireplace crackled between them while the princess gathered her words, casting flickering red-orange light over the table and chairs; eventually, she inhaled deeply and began, 

“This tale is about the previous Emperor, Lycaon VII - my grandfather. Be patient,” she chided upon seeing Byleth’s frustrated expression. “All will be clear in due time.”

“Several decades ago, he attended the Midwinter Ball in Fhirdiad. This was not odd in itself, since relations among the three nations were amicable at the time, but this particular Midwinter was special: it was the one at which he met the love of his life.” 

“Lycaon was a private and dutiful man, not given to impulse or romance, but he described her as ‘Eternity’s grace incarnate’ in his memoirs - a beauty beyond compare.”

Byleth leaned forward, once again absorbed in Edelgard’s words. A taciturn ruler meeting his true love at a dance? Such a plot could have jumped from the pages of her and Flayn’s favorite novels.

“For the rest of the evening, they were inseparable. They caused quite the scandal by accepting no other dancing partners but each other. Lycaon danced more times in that one night than in all of his other Midwinter appearances combined - and he even absconded with her before the night was over.”

_ Absconded _ . Byleth grinned, pressing her hands together. “And then what? Were they married?”

Edelgard raised her eyes slowly, mouth pulling into a strained smile. 

“No,” she said, lifting her teacup and wrapping both hands around it. “At the end of the festival week, the Empire’s caravan returned to Enbarr and Lycaon rejoined his family - his wife and many children.”

She paused to sip her tea, watching the delight drain from Byleth’s features.

“So-” Byleth anxiously held her own cup, trying to adjust to the sudden tone shift, “-this isn’t a story about your grandparents?”

The princess shook her head, maintaining direct eye contact. All the rubies in her circlet glittered in the firelight. “After he left, Lycaon’s great love returned to her lonely tower west of Fhirdiad. They both decided, you see, that their duties as Emperor and Archbishop outweighed the attraction they felt toward one another. Such bittersweet trysts are not so uncommon at events like these.”

In the void left by her swiftly-departed joy, ice crystals collated and spread, weblike, through Byleth’s chest. Archbishop - Rhea? Rhea had a lover?

Edelgard replaced her cup on its saucer. “But then nobody saw the Archbishop for nearly a year; the official story was that she sequestered herself, praying for an end to the Kingdom’s ongoing conflict with Sreng. You can guess what actually happened.”

If not for the radiant warmth of her teacup, Byleth would be completely frozen. “Rhea had a  _ child _ ?” She asked through numb lips.

“And not just any child,” Edelgard emphasized. “Though she never learned her true origin, believing herself to be just another orphan raised within the Church, that child had the blood of House Hresvelg. The Archbishop knowingly harbored a branch of the Imperial line. Do you need a moment?” She asked, voice softening, as her eyes alighted on Byleth’s trembling fingers.

“No.  _ No _ ,” Byleth insisted, taking a sip of her tea for its fortifying heat. “Tell me- tell me the rest.”

Edelgard accepted this with a curt nod. “Meanwhile, Lycaon never forgot his ‘grace incarnate.’ Over the next five years, he wasted away to nothing and eventually succumbed to an illness his doctors couldn’t name. My father, the Imperial Prince, was already suspicious of the Archbishop’s behavior. After he ascended the throne as Ionius IX, he dispatched spies to the Church.”

“Though they could never prove anything, they did bring back word of a young orphan girl who bore a striking resemblance to Lycaon and his children. That was enough for my father; his dealings with the Church - and the Kingdom by extension - grew cold, and the Archbishop reciprocated the treatment. That attitude came to define our current political climate.”

Byleth inhaled deeply. “ _ That’s _ what changed,” she murmured, filling in several historical blanks at once. “But- what happened to the child? Did she ever learn the truth?” The thought of an orphan going her entire life beside her birth mother, yet never knowing her to be so, left Byleth lonely beyond measure - and Edelgard’s slight, pitying smile made it worse.

“I don’t think she did,” Edelgard said sadly. “She lived a short but happy life, marrying a Kingdom knight and bearing a daughter of her own.  _ That _ is perhaps the greatest tragedy; not even her chosen family could escape the Church.”

A Kingdom knight-

Byleth drew back so quickly that the pearls on her mantle clacked together. “Lady Edelgard, are you suggesting-”

“Did you know,” Edelgard interjected, “that, just one time, the Archbishop personally granted names to the Church’s sheltered infants? Only once.” She held up one slender gloved finger. “Among that group was a baby girl with dark green hair and Hresvelg eyes - and Rhea named her ‘Sitri.’”

\---Part 2: Felix---

Around the third turn, he was sure they weren’t headed to the Grand Hall, thus confirming his suspicions and retroactively justifying his decision to tail them. Ingrid couldn’t follow through on her silent promise of a future reprimand - communicated solely with a stern-eyed glare as Felix had vacated the dining table - if there was  _ actually _ something to investigate.

But he took her meaning well enough.  _ Subtlety _ . And so he remained a hall behind his targets at all times, using furniture and other people to break line of sight.

What did Edelgard want with Bel?

Felix stewed on this question as he went, trying his best not to look out of place among the more leisurely guests that dotted the corridors. Based on the intelligence they’d gathered so far, Edelgard likely wasn’t directly involved in the attack, if she was involved at all; that, and her present behavior wasn’t that of an assassin.

Bel  _ did _ mention that Edelgard had said something strange during the opening dance. From the princess’s perspective, this might be her only chance to speak with Bel alone without interference from Church or Empire leadership - but what could she possibly want to discuss that required such secrecy?

The pair turned onto a parlor hall and Felix rounded the corner in time to see them enter one of the rooms at its far end. Outside it stood Marquis Vestra, who, annoyingly, seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at this party; Felix could have sworn that there was another banquet being held for the rulers and lords at this very moment, and the Imperial Ministers should all be in attendance.

He stalked up to the marquis - who regarded him with an entertained smirk - gave him a cursory up-and-down to confirm his threat level, and then pushed open the door unceremoniously. Behind him, barely registering in his haste, he heard a low, mocking chuckle.

Inside the room, Bel and Edelgard were seated before a hearth, looking for all the world like two friends enjoying a tea break - that is, until Bel turned around. She was pale as a ghost, barely sustaining her composure as it wavered on the edge of fear. Her eyes were sparkling, almost like she was- crying?

Felix had taken exactly one step over the threshold, a half-formed snarl on his lips, when Bel shook her head; it was a tiny gesture, just a single jerk of her chin, but the warning was clear. He stilled at once.

“It’s all right,” Bel said quietly. She held his gaze steadily, keeping him at bay with her eyes. “I’m all right.”

His grip tightened on the door handle. She clearly wasn’t ‘all right’ - Edelgard had done something to her -  _ said _ something to make her look like that-

But there was no obvious imperilment here, and she’d requested his restraint - so he settled his aggressive posture and let the tension roll out of his shoulders. She approved of this with a faint, reassuring smile.

“Would you wait for us  _ outside _ , Lord Felix?” Edelgard asked brusquely, answering his dark glare with a trained coolness. “We are nearly finished.”

A fraction of his mind - the bit that retained at least some of the preparatory knowledge his teachers and professors had tried to instill over the years - knew that his present conduct was rude and highly irregular. As the possibility of a threat grew smaller, this fraction grew louder - and so did all the promises he’d made to Sylvain and himself about not harming Bel’s reputation.

He closed the door harder than he should have and plastered himself to the corridor wall.  _ Idiot _ , he thought, letting his head thunk against the stone. He didn’t often experience shame - it was a vaguely defined bit of vocabulary for him - but it burned high in his cheeks now, nipping at his confidence.

How many social blunders would it take until he was a suitable partner for her?

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Marquis Vestra asked snidely, a cold reminder of his presence at the other side of the doorway.

Felix glanced over, meeting narrowed, calculating green eyes, and said nothing. From their earlier conversation, he’d gleaned that the marquis might employ similar oratorical tactics to Claude: prod until the subject faltered.

“Now, there’s no need for such distrust.” One side of Marquis Vestra’s mouth tilted upward. “I’m simply trying to offer you some friendly advice.”

“ _ Offer _ it, then,” Felix spat, crossing his arms. He had no patience for diplomats like this; the ones whose words had double meanings, who talked like they were constantly enjoying some sort of private joke.

The marquis put up his hands in mock-surrender with another deep, ominous laugh. “Very well. Let me begin with a question: why are you here?”

\---Part 3: Byleth---

The door slammed shut, leaving them alone in the parlor room once more.

Byleth, though glad that Felix had found her, was still reeling from Edelgard’s revelations - and now she had to find a way to explain all of this to  _ him _ , too.

“That was uncalled for,” Edelgard huffed, bending across the tea table to refill both of their cups. She inspected Byleth’s face, adding worriedly, “Are you sure you don’t need a few minutes, Your Grace?”

After eagerly sipping at her refreshed cup - and relishing the heat that spread in her chest - Byleth shook her head. “It’s just a lot to take in at once,” she said, resting back in her chair. Her mind swam with truths and implications, very few of them pleasant or easy to digest.

“-Why did you tell me?” She asked, wincing when it came out thin and vulnerable. Did Edelgard have something to gain from this? Was she trying to weaken the Church?

“When I came of age, my father let me in on many secrets.” Edelgard diverted her eyes to the fireplace, leaning against one armrest. “Learning I might have a lost cousin in the Kingdom, well - I was intrigued.”

“And...I thought you should know,” she added, more subdued. “I’m aware that I have nothing but anecdotes to substantiate my claims, but- were our places reversed,  _ I _ would want to know.”

Byleth stared down into her tea, unable to find any fault with that logic. If their places  _ were _ reversed, she would absolutely do the same.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” she said, watching steam curl and rise from her cup. “I could confirm or deny this easily with augury, and you know that. So why would you go to such lengths just to fool me for a few hours?”

Edelgard nodded placidly, as if condoning this train of thought.

“But why would Rhea- why would the Archbishop keep this from me? Or from my mother? Did she not-” _ Love us _ ?  _ Want us _ ? Byleth made a small sound of frustration in her throat. She’d always had the impression that Rhea treasured her - but was that only because of her transformation?

“I’m afraid I don’t have those answers,” Edelgard said. “But I can imagine the fear of a young woman who must balance the consequences of impulse with the weight of responsibility. I don’t condone the way she handled it - but I certainly sympathize with her struggle.”

Byleth squeezed her eyes shut, fending off a new wave of tears that threatened Mercedes’s careful brushwork. Rhea  _ had _ been alone at the time; the only living vessel. The only true candidate for Archbishop. If her ability to lead were called into question, it would have thrown the Church back into the chaos it had so recently escaped.

She sympathized, too. Every part of her brain screamed for anger, but she couldn’t muster it.

“That’s the reality of leadership, Your Grace,” Edelgard commented, observing Byleth’s frequent changes in expression. “You and I will make similar choices in the future, no less dire or far-reaching, and then it will fall to  _ our _ progeny to pass judgment on them.”

Byleth looked up, taking in the whole of Edelgard’s elegant posture and speech, and the difference between them struck her like a rock to the forehead. Edelgard could clearly see the path before her; Edelgard was ready to lead. If she needed to take the reins of the Empire tomorrow, she could do it, and do it well.

By comparison, if Byleth had to become Archbishop tomorrow-

“I’m not ready,” she whispered, hearing a recursive mental echo of every time Rhea and Seteth had told her the very same. To Edelgard’s questioning stare, she continued as evenly as she could, “Thank you, Your Highness. You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.”

“I don’t think I should accept thanks for increasing your burdens, but- you’re welcome,” Edelgard said with a hint of awkwardness. She stood from her chair and motioned for Byleth to do the same. “Let us return to the banquet; the excuse of a dance can only cover our absence for so long.”

\---Part 4: Felix---

“What?” Felix asked flatly. He’d been anticipating some sort of jab. “I’m escorting her. You should already-”

“You misunderstand me,” Marquis Vestra said smoothly, pointing one long finger across the gap. “Why are  _ you _ -” he aimed that finger at the ground beneath Felix’s feet, “- _ here _ ?”

Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “You’re a soldier. A knight. The only son of Duke Fraldarius, destined to one day advise King Dimitri in military affairs. What ties have you to the Church?”

Felix went quiet, irked at the man’s condemning tone but unable to provide a good answer. ‘ _ I teach her to fight,’ _ didn’t sound satisfactory even in his own mind.

“Why do you care?” He demanded.

Marquis Vestra barked a harsh laugh. “I’m only asking what those around you are already wondering. Exceptional circumstances have allowed you a place at her side, but it is only temporary. How long do you intend to protect her?”

_ Forever _ , Felix thought fiercely, gritting his teeth to keep it from escaping.

“So, a while,” the marquis intuited, voice low and cruel. “Then act like it.”

A defensive retort died on Felix’s tongue. “What?” He asked again, incredulous, fingers twitching for the hilt of his sword. “I  _ have _ been!”

“No,” Marquis Vestra deadpanned. “You’ve been acting like an overzealous hellion who can’t distinguish infatuation from duty. Do you want to know why I didn’t stop you from entering?”

Again, he went on, seeming uninterested in Felix’s reply, “I wanted to see if you were  _ actually _ going to interrupt an official dialogue between the Imperial Princess and the Holy Maiden.”

He tossed a disgusted glance across the gap. “What did you imagine was going on in there? And don’t insult my intelligence or yours by saying, ‘murder.’”

Felix rapidly opened and shut his mouth. He couldn’t refute that the possibility of foul play had been low - he’d known that, even before Edelgard had veered away from the Grand Hall - but he also couldn’t quite explain why he’d checked inside anyway. 

Or rather, he didn’t  _ want _ to explain it, he thought with a glower. His recent memories of Bel in danger weren’t any of the marquis’s damn business.

“That aside,” Marquis Vestra said, switching to a tone that bordered on pleasant, “I  _ do _ have some advice for you, one protector to another: your posture.”

Felix looked down at himself - at his folded arms, set shoulders, and wide stance. A solid pose with a low center of gravity, good for sudden strikes. 

“What’s wrong with my posture?” He asked, momentarily shunted out of his anger by curiosity.

“You need to appear less dangerous,” the marquis said with the sort of patience one reserved for children and idiots - Felix recognized it from his own talks with Sylvain.

“This isn’t the battlefield; broadcasting your ability and willingness to kill only means that real enemies will never come close enough to detect and dispatch.” He gestured to his own standing position: heels together, back straight, wrists crossed behind him.

“In simpler terms, you want to be approachable when you’re accompanying your lady. Just like you assumed of me, you want someone with ill intent to disregard you as a threat - at least initially.”

Felix narrowed his eyes, looking the man over more closely. That last bit was definitely a veiled statement, but for all his scrutiny, the marquis still appeared to be a noncombatant. He didn’t show any overt muscle definition or the bearing of a soldier - so what, in his own estimation, made him such a ‘threat?’

“Just a thought,” Marquis Vestra said, grinning more wickedly than his tone reflected. “If you’re planning on being useful to Her Grace, that is.”

Felix ran his tongue over his teeth and imagined running his blade through the man’s scrawny ribcage.

“Right,” he said, pointedly widening his stance. “Thanks for the tips.”

The parlor room door opened while he and the marquis were still leering at each other; both men promptly returned to neutrality when Edelgard and Bel stepped into the hall.

“Thank you for your assistance, Hubert. Would you accompany us back to the banquets?” Edelgard asked, adjusting the line of her cape.

But Felix took one look at Bel and decided that wasn’t happening. She was still just as pale as what he’d glimpsed earlier, and when he offered her his arm, she clung to it like she had after the Minuet - when she’d desperately needed a breather.

“I’ve got it from here, Your Highness,” Felix said as politely as he was able, even throwing in a generous, “Minister,” before departing ahead of them.

The two made no move to follow, simply shooting each other highly amused looks, but Felix couldn’t be bothered with them anymore; he leaned down to Bel as they walked, pulling her in close.

“What do you need?” He asked quietly, turning onto a side hall as soon as the opportunity arose. “Where do you want to go?”

She murmured, “Somewhere quiet,” and Felix felt he knew just the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hubert to felix: git gud :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This one's a bit short - I had a choice between cutting the chapter here or uploading late, and I chose to cut it.
> 
> That said, the upload schedule is changing from 5 to 7 days (so I can sleep more and have weekend rest days)! The static upload day will now be FRIDAYS, starting this upcoming one. :D

\---Part 1: Byleth---

She walked beside him in a fog, everything Edelgard had said swirling around in her mind like leaves in a strong wind: scattered and hectic.

Felix guided her calmly through the halls, taking them on a winding path that somehow managed to avoid any more party guests. The few members of the castle staff that saw them bowed low and said nothing, perhaps used to his presence.

Mercifully, he didn’t solicit anything more from her, either, leaving her to gather herself in peace. It worked; the tendrils of panic that had gripped her so strongly in the parlor room were receding back into the void, leaving in their wake a cold, absolute clarity - she needed to confirm Edelgard’s story. And after-

A cloak of resolution settled about her shoulders, grim and leaden.

After that, she needed to confront Rhea.

Byleth breathed in a lungful of air to say as much to Felix, but found it much fresher and naturally perfumed than her previous one; looking up, a sea of lively vegetation had replaced the hall’s gray stone and blue drapery. She glanced back over her shoulder, at the tearoom she’d apparently traversed in a trance, to the corridor beyond - and then, pleasantly surprised, up at Felix, who regarded her with a lopsided smirk.

“Somewhere quiet,” he repeated by way of answer, and then pulled her across the threshold and into the royal gardens. She went willingly, remembering the last time she’d done this with a faint smile of her own. They were on the opposite side of the room now, but, far downfield, she could just about make out the end of a stepping stone pathway if she squinted.

They were headed in the other direction, toward a raised bit of landscape that ended in a cliff overlooking a pond. Beyond that, the side entrance of the Grand Hall was open wide, spilling light and music into the garden. People dotted the lawns, patches of richly-colored fabric against moonlit green, some dancing and some sitting on benches - Felix diverted away from them, to an area behind the hill.

He walked so purposefully that Byleth hesitated to question his objective, but they _were_ coming up on a dead end; this part of the path terminated at a barrier of thick Dagdan foliage. To the left, the stone walkway wrapped around the slope and headed toward the cliffside pond, and to the right was only the artfully obfuscated wall of the room itself.

Felix left her side to wade into the undergrowth and her confusion only sharpened.

“What are you-?” She asked, but he cut her off with a finger to his lips. Silently, he pulled back a few thick branches and revealed a previously hidden trail beyond them; with a sweep of his free arm, he beckoned for her to walk through.

Byleth breathed a laugh and complied, narrowing her eyes teasingly at him as she passed. The trail was too thin for two adults to walk abreast, so he followed behind her as they climbed a short incline to a clearing of soft grass.

The densely-packed Dagdan trees surrounded it on three sides, leaving a small opening that looked out over the western area of the gardens - and that provided a perfect view of the Grand Hall’s side entrance.

She pivoted, an obvious question on her tongue, but Felix had anticipated it.

“Dimitri and I made this place when we were younger,” he explained quickly, like he didn’t want to be saying it. He unclasped his cape and laid it out on the ground, dropping cross-legged on one side. “To spy on our fathers’ official business in the Hall.”

Byleth surveyed the space, imagining child versions of Felix and Dimitri chasing each other with stick-based weapons, and grinned. “It looks really fun for a kid.”

He looked around as if he were seeing the same mental imagery, saying quietly, “It- was.”

Slowly, in the silence that followed, his eyes drifted up to her face. “You’re not sitting?”

She peeled off her gloves, shrugging apologetically. “I have to find out if Edelgard was telling the truth,” she said, touching two fingers to her augur spike. “With this. You can look away if you want. I know you don’t like it.”

“Hm?” Felix asked, frowning, looking between her wrist and the spike. “I don’t care. Your magic is a tool, like my sword.”

Byleth fidgeted with the spike’s chain, clutching her gloves in one hand. “But- in the carriage, before the attack-”

“I said I didn’t want you spilling blood for _me_. It’s different.” He peered up at her stoically. “This is for you, right?”

That _was_ different, she supposed, though she still didn’t quite understand the thinking behind it; nevertheless, she tossed down her gloves - he caught them deftly, draping them over his knee - and held out her wrist in the usual fashion.

“It’s sort of strange the first time,” she warned, giving him one final check to make sure he was ready. He made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat.

“I see your magic every week,” he said flatly.

She grimaced; it wasn’t really the same as healing or flames, but-

Better to just show him, she thought.

“Did Lady Edelgard speak the truth?” She pronounced clearly, and then brought the spike down on her wrist. Her question fell within the realm of an augury, so she lifted a single drop of blood over the grass and let it fall; this time, thankfully, the wound closed almost instantly.

The blood thinned and spread into two stalks, sprouting leaves and then buds on both; the first one bloomed - into lavender, she realized from the shape and direction of its tiny petals - but the second did not.

Felix leaned over the answer and hummed, unimpressed. “The Goddess talks to you with pictures?”

“It’s called a _blood sign_ ,” Byleth said. It hissed out of existence, making Felix jump back, and she smiled vengefully. “Every image means something different, and every answer is personal to the asker. The Goddess showed me lavender flowers as a positive symbol, since that’s what I first associated with Edelgard.”

He blinked, inspecting the grass where the sign had been. “All right, then. So the flowers meant she wasn’t lying?”

Byleth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, no. One bloomed but not the other; that means she was telling a partial truth. It was a flower bud, still growing, so that means she left something out rather than lying - I think.”

“You _think_?”

She plopped down next to him on the cape, letting her augur spike fall back against her chest. “It’s not an exact- some people spend decades studying prophetic symbolism and still get things wrong sometimes, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed easily, the corners of his mouth pulling up. “So what was this partial truth?”

She hesitated, toying with the hem of her sleeve and focusing on it instead of him. Why was this so difficult? Felix, of all people, wouldn’t judge her for who her family was - and it wasn’t like she herself was ashamed of it, either.

“Edelgard said we were cousins,” Byleth muttered. “That we share a grandfather. That Rhea is my-”

Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and tried again, but the word wouldn’t come unstuck - after the third unsuccessful try, she understood what, exactly, was so difficult about this.

“ _Grandmother_ ,” she finally ground out, swallowing hard. Her mouth tasted bitter; her shoulders shook beneath her mantle. Saying it out loud somehow made everything - the lies, the secrecy, the hurt - more real.

She raised her head, unsure what kind of face to make or what she even wanted him to say. Everything felt infuriatingly fragile and wobbly, like she was struck through with hairline fractures and any small movement might shatter her.

Felix was in the process of removing his cotton gloves, laying them alongside Byleth’s. He rested one hand on his knee, palm facing upward in what was becoming a customary invitation.

“And you believed her?” He asked, steady and analytical. Byleth thought he might make some sort of comment about Edelgard or Rhea - and there _was_ anger in his eyes, dark and repressed - but he looked to be holding himself back.

She slipped her hand into his and sighed in relief at the warm glide of skin contact, at the comforting pressure when his fingers closed around her. “I want to hear Rhea’s explanation, as well, but- yes.”

Silence descended on the clearing, punctuated by strains of orchestral music that drifted in from the Grand Hall. Felix’s mouth was flattened like he was holding something in, but he said nothing, simply staring at their joined hands.

“-Felix,” she prompted after a lapse, leaning forward until she could catch his gaze. He’d done this before, too: restrained himself for reasons she couldn’t determine. “What are you thinking?”

He turned his head to the side to circumvent eye contact. “You don’t want to hear it. It’s not-” his jaw clenched, “-useful.”

The words stuck in her like poisoned arrows, burning where they pierced. Did he really think she cared about his utility? 

“I didn’t ask because I wanted you to be _of use_ ,” she snapped, blinking back frustrated tears. “I asked because I’m _scared_ . What else is Rhea hiding - what did Edelgard hide?” Her bottom lip quivered with another, unvoiced plea: _what am I supposed to do about this_?

“I can’t- I can’t see it clearly right now,” she said, fighting to keep her voice from wavering. “So, please - how do you see it?”

As she spoke, Felix’s eyes softened incrementally. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, muttering, “ _Shit_ ,” under his breath. He scratched at his neck and remained bent over for a few moments, periodically grunting like he was debating something internally. 

When he straightened again, there was a determined set to his jaw. “Fine. You want to know what I think?”

His free hand clenched into a fist on his unoccupied knee. “I think Edelgard has an agenda. They all do. I think she’s using you, just like Rhea, just like everyone that approached you tonight.”

As if unleashed by some invisible dam, his grievances continued to flow, heated and unfettered. “I think those Church people are fucking hypocrites, complaining about your ignorance while happily exploiting it at every opportunity. I think Rhea just sat there and watched Claude and Edelgard manipulate you and did nothing - said nothing - prepared you for _nothing_.”

He exhaled harshly, shoulders dipping like the admission exhausted him - like he’d been keeping it in for a long time. He looked down at their hands again, to where Byleth was caressing his wrist with her thumb, and softly mirrored the motion.

“And if Edelgard was telling the truth, so what? Neither the Empire nor the Church would publicly admit to it, and there aren’t many lords without their own skeletons, anyway,” he said derisively, and then went on in quite the profound manner for the sharpness of his tone, “It doesn’t matter who your family is. All that matters is who _you_ are.”

His bluntness shocked her at first, but then she recognized the care underneath it; she smiled, and the longer he spoke, the wider it became. She’d had no idea he was so incensed on her behalf - or so protective.

“Thank you,” she murmured when he was done, and meant it in a much larger sense than gratitude for his honesty. He’d somehow filled in all the cracks around her heart, and not just the little ones from today, either.

Felix glanced up at her, tracing the smile on her lips, and then abruptly shifted his attention to the break in the trees. “No problem,” he said stiffly.

\---Part 2: Felix---

All of the righteous fury vented out of him at that gentle smile; it simultaneously understood and accepted his rage, displaying a level of trust that he was _not_ equipped to handle. He wanted to get away from its vulnerability, to sprint off into the darkness of the gardens, but at the same time he couldn’t be close enough - another part of him wanted to lunge over and get a taste of her, to test that trust with his teeth-

The twin impulses went to war, blending into a roaring, engulfing static. He jerked his body toward the Grand Hall to escape it - and her, and that _smile_ \- and uttered a stilted, “No problem.”

He stared blankly through the Hall’s side doors, registering movement and color inside but not much else while he processed this strange urge. Not the first one; flight was his usual response to emotional engagement - that or aggression. With Bel it was, admittedly, different. It had always been different.

But he’d never wanted to kiss her before. That was new.

And baffling.

Having never received any instruction on how to handle complex feelings - in the Fraldarius household, they were invariably denied and ignored - he conjured up a fresh new box alongside the many, many others in his proverbial closet, stuffed the urge inside, and slammed it shut.

Some unknown person or people wanted to hurt Bel. _He_ needed to become a better protector. There were so many important things to do and consider, there was no time for him to be thinking about-

About-

He wrestled the box’s lid back down again. _Stop it_.

Fortunately, she allowed him the space and quiet he needed to securely recover, only shooting him the occasional glance as if checking his status. When his vision cleared up and he could think coherently, he looked down at Bel, who was still patiently observing him, and then farther down at their hands, where she was now using both of hers to gently hold one of his.

“Better?” She asked, and then after he nodded, continued carefully, “What happened?”

Felix grunted, unprepared to explain his many and nebulous interpersonal issues. “Too much,” he said simply, hoping she would understand - and, by the empathetic tick to her mouth, it seemed like she did.

“Thanks.” He lifted their hands slightly. “For helping.”

“No problem,” she said wryly, and he laughed.

The current song floating in distantly from the Hall, an upbeat tune meant for the line-step, slowed and faded. In its place began an unfamiliar melody, timed like a waltz but slower; he turned toward the music to hear it better.

Couples were amassing on the dance floor, but they didn’t arrange into a ring like the Faerghan waltzes he’d seen in the past. Instead they remained disparate pairs that connected only with each other, never switching - and, now that he thought of it, there _was_ something like this that his father had mentioned in connection with the ball.

“What is it?” Bel asked, intrigued, sitting up to get a better view of the dancers.

He grasped at threads of half-tuned-out breakfast table rants, eventually piecing together enough to answer, “Some popular waltz from Derdriu - to hear my old man tell it, it’s a ‘threat to the youth.’” He scoffed. “Ridiculous. It’s just a stupid dance.”

“Oh,” she said, still trained on the Hall. “It looks, um- different.”

A faint blush had bloomed on her cheeks; Felix forced his eyes away from it to see what she was talking about.

The song was in full swing now, with partners twirling around each other at a slow, measured speed. He noticed with a spark of curiosity that they were quite a bit closer to each other than was proper for a traditional waltz.

 _Practically embracing in public_ , Rodrigue had fumed, and now Felix understood the full context. _Cannot be allowed at Midwinter_.

Evidently his father had lost that particular battle with Rufus.

Despite its foreign and scandalous nature, there were many familiar faces among the couples. He wasn’t stunned at all to see Claude and Hilda at the center of the formation, taking turns dipping each other; elsewhere were Ashe and Annette, grinning and giggling at one another’s mistakes.

But the most jarring sight by far had to be Dimitri on the outskirts, partnered with one of his dining companions, a woman with light blue hair. Both of them looked wildly uncomfortable, standing as far apart as the dance would allow and moving slightly out of time with its steps.

“Graceful as a boulder,” Felix said, snorting, and pointed out Dimitri when Bel looked over. “He’s usually passable - Rufus probably forced him into it.”

She watched them bumble around the dance floor with an odd mix of envy and apprehension. “I can’t laugh; I don’t think I would fare much better.”

“No?” Felix continued to inspect her expression, trying to figure out if she wanted to dance or not. It was one of his great fears of the evening; Sylvain had vigorously impressed upon him that he should take her to the dance floor _once_ at the very least.

“I think you could do it,” he ventured, flicking his eyes quickly back to the Hall when she looked at him. “It seems easy.”

He didn’t catch the change in her face, but he heard the smile in her voice when she replied, “Does it? Maybe I’ll ask you to teach me next week at training.”

A lance of guilt ripped through his chest; he covered his mouth with his free hand. _Do it now_ , he thought. _Don’t run away again_.

“Bel,” he said reluctantly. “I won’t be here next week.”

Her grip went slack. “Oh,” she said, and the palpable dismay in her voice twisted the guilt-lance deeper in his flesh. “Where are you going?”

Felix pushed past the ache, angling himself to face her completely. “My next assignment from the Knight-Captain. Ingrid, Ashe, and I are being sent south as part of the investigation.” He didn’t need to specify which investigation; one of Bel’s hands went immediately to her augur spike.

“Oh,” she repeated, subdued. “How long will you be gone?”

This was the worst, he decided.

“I don’t know.” His briefing had been kept intentionally vague to prevent any preemptive information leaks. “We’re making a circuit of the Oghma foundries, so-” he did some swift calculations, “-that’s three weeks of travel, barring any delays.”

Bel cast her eyes downward, arranging her features in a manner that Felix was coming to recognize as a struggle to repress herself. Before she could hide away completely, he blurted out on impulse:

“-But I can teach you now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix encounters an unfamiliar emotion!
> 
> >option 1: RUN  
> >option 2: KISS
> 
> >felix.exe has crashed


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arc complete! Thanks for sticking with me this long - there's lots more to come! \o/
> 
> 3 things:
> 
> 1\. If you missed it last time, I'm switching to a static upload day: FRIDAYS.
> 
> 2\. To answer a question from last chapter (I don't feel this is a spoiler): YES this story will have a happy ending
> 
> 3\. I'm pretty shy, but I'll answer any questions or comments about the story [on tumblr](https://mechawaka.tumblr.com/), where my brain figures it's safer, somehow. Not sure how that works, but hey.

\---Part 1: Byleth---

“What?” Byleth’s eyes snapped to him; she wondered if, in her concentration, she’d misheard. Certainly he hadn’t just offered to teach her a _dance_?

He flinched away, looking just as surprised to have said it - but then, in the next moment, his face set to stony obstinacy. He stood, stalking to the center of the clearing and leaving their gloves behind.

“A paired dance isn’t unlike a duel,” he said evasively as he went. “We’ve both seen it once, now. Consider this a test of your short-term information retention.”

A dumbfounded laugh punched out of her at that; jolted from her melancholy, she threw back, “Is this a lesson or a challenge?”

In the Hall, the current song was winding down. The dancers separated and bowed to each other, some rejoining immediately, some seeking new partners.

Felix turned on his heel to face her again, assuming something close to a battle stance. “It can be both. Are you coming or not?”

At a loss for words, she just stared up at him from the ground. This was almost certainly an attempt to lift her spirits after Edelgard’s admission and his own news of imminent departure - but its execution was so very _Felix_ that she had to laugh. It bubbled up out of her, refreshing and jubilant, and carried off a portion of her worries.

Goddess, she loved this man. The thought didn’t even scare her like it should; it simply nestled in close to her heart like it had always been there, like it would always be there. Later, she thought, she could dwell on all the problems and tribulations it might bring, but now - in a space and time they’d carved out only for each other - she let it envelop and console her, a balm for the stress of the evening.

“What’s so funny?” He asked, his self-assured posture faltering. Byleth, not wanting him to think she was making light of his request, scrambled to her feet and joined him.

“Nothing,” she said, raising one hand to the dance’s starting position and boldly sliding the other up his back to rest on his shoulder blade.

“Shall we?” She asked with false bravado, fighting back the heat she knew was crawling up her neck. The partners’ proximity had looked intimate from a distance, but up close it was _much_ worse - and Felix wasn’t faring any better with its realities. He grasped her extended hand eagerly, but the one on her back fluttered there uncertainly, darting up and down like it couldn’t decide on a proper spot.

He made a vague sound of affirmation, face as flushed as hers must be at this point, and they fell into a simple step progression as a new song - with a different melody, but played in the same meter - filtered into the garden from the Grand Hall.

Byleth was confident in her ability to perform the dance’s basic movements; in many aspects, it was comparable to the Adrestian Minuet. Only Felix’s closeness gave her pause, tripping up her feet even when she was sure of their next destination.

He was making similar tiny missteps, and likely for the same reason, judging from his tight expression. Initially she tried to keep score for the purposes of their challenge-lesson, but lost count after around a dozen mistakes each; if Felix was even counting in the first place, he never made any indication. 

But it got easier after that. Byleth stopped correcting herself and just moved with him, making slow circuits of the clearing to the distant, echoing music and the rustling of leaves and grass. When she felt collected enough, she looked up from their feet - and found Felix already watching her.

He reared back at her notice, rosy blush darkening, and averted his eyes to the side. The motion drew her attention down to the breast of his coat, where one of her violets was still blooming proudly, but another detail grabbed her attention as well.

“Felix,” she said quietly, leaning in to inspect his white ascot. “Is that my scarf?”

Nearer now, she recognized the soft white fabric that comprised most of her day-to-day wardrobe; he’d tucked it under his shirt and jacket in precisely the same manner as a traditional ascot, completely camouflaged except to someone who was familiar with the specific weave of monastery cloth. 

“It’s- comfortable,” he muttered, squirming in her grasp. “Sylvain had me in some silk nightmare. I could tell I’d be sweating all evening, so...” he trailed off, shrugging curtly.

Byleth breathed a laugh at the excuse. “I’m _happy_ you’re wearing it,” she clarified with a smile. “I have your dagger, too.”

Felix nearly stumbled, catching himself by holding tightly to her back - and for the second it took him to regain his footing, they _were_ embracing. Byleth felt she suddenly understood why some of the more traditional lords wanted this dance banned from the ball; in any other setting, this kind of contact between unmarried people would be wildly improper.

“ _Where_?” He nearly choked, scanning down her body for any sign of it. After lighting on the wide pleats in her skirt - and noting the absence of other hiding spots - he cleared his throat and inferred, “-Ah,” before looking pointedly away from the area.

They didn’t commence the full range of the dance again, merely side-stepping in a small area in time to the orchestra. Felix’s eyes gradually traveled back up to her face, his expression morphing from embarrassment to something hesitant and foreboding.

“When we met,” he began, “in the forest-”

She exhaled slowly, preparing herself, and nodded. She had an inkling that he’d picked up on this from Linhardt’s earlier questioning, and it was about time Felix knew about it, anyway.

“I was going to die there?” He asked quietly, and then Byleth was the one that couldn’t maintain eye contact.

She focused instead on her scarf at his neck, a reminder that he _had_ lived, no matter the painful memories that inundated her. “-Yes,” she confirmed, resting her cheek on his shoulder and breathing in fresh cotton and clove oil. _Alive_.

He clutched at her back and pulled her closer into him, bending his head over hers, his voice an anguished whisper in her hair. “And you _saw_ it?”

Byleth hesitated, closing her eyes to keep herself grounded, and then nodded again. He made no reply this time, only exhaled harshly and slid his hand up her back to the nape of her neck, cradling her against his shoulder.

There were no platitudes, no remarks that could suffice, she knew, and didn’t fault him for his silence; this self-imposed darkness, with his lips pressed to her hair and his heartbeat thumping erratically in her ears, was all the comfort she needed.

Gradually, even their reduced movements ceased until they were just swaying together, stationary, in the middle of the clearing. At some point the music faded out and transitioned to a different, more lively style, and only then did Byleth’s senses return.

She opened her eyes, weathering a sliver of the heartache that was waiting to descend upon her. This solace in his arms, this warmth and complacency, was only temporary - a product of dire circumstance and the Lord Regent’s imposition. She couldn’t allow herself to expect any more from Felix; she couldn’t allow herself to get used to this.

“We should go back,” she murmured into his collar. “They’ll be looking for us.”

His grip loosened and Byleth leaned away from him, slipping her arm from his back. But instead of letting go completely, Felix adjusted his other hand and entwined their fingers, cutting off her escape.

“Bel, do you-” he paused, momentarily dropping his gaze to her mouth. “Do you _want_ to be Archbishop?”

Her current, dismal train of thought severed abruptly at the question.

“Where did that come from?” She asked, cocking her head.

Felix raised his eyes to the center of her forehead, glaring a hole into it. “I only- everyone assumes that you’ll succeed Rhea. Do you even want to?” 

He hedged, “There’s- there are other paths, too.”

She laughed wistfully, recalling the night they’d first parted at the lake. How vivid her fantasies had been: the two of them, side by side, nameless knights in service to House Fraldarius. She’d been so _clueless_ back then.

“You’re right. Everyone assumes,” she said bitterly, shaking her head. “But- you know I don’t like how the Church operates right now.”

Felix dipped his chin in acknowledgement, his own twisted frown a testament to the same opinion.

“If I become Archbishop, I’ll have a chance to change that,” she explained, smiling at the thought. Sothis’s fathomless spiritual presence stirred within her. “I can help people. The Church can really help people, like it should. Why?”

She looked up again, catching the fleeting tail end of an expression - rueful? Guilty? - on Felix’s face before he composed himself.

“Just realized I’d never asked you before,” he said evenly, lowering their extended arms and disentangling their fingers. “You’d be good for them.”

Something about his resigned tone rang alarm bells in her head; she fisted her hand in the front of his coat, keeping him in place just as he’d done to her. “It wouldn’t change anything,” she said, hurried and adamant. “I’d still see you all the time.”

He glanced down at her desperate hold and huffed a thin laugh. “I know,” he said, gently removing her hand with both of his and returning it to her side. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

With a taunting smirk, he stepped around her and retrieved his cape and both pairs of gloves from the ground. “Even the Archbishop needs to know how to fight, after all.”

Byleth made a low, frustrated sound in her throat. “That’s not what I-”

“Hey, you two!” Sylvain’s voice called cheerily from the bottom of the hill. “Break time’s over!”

\---Part 2: Ingrid---

“It’s cute that he thinks this place is a secret,” Sylvain said, leaning his back against a tall Dagdan pine.

He peered through the branches that hid the trail’s entrance and checked the path for any passers-by, a tight, explicitly unamused smile on his face. “Who does he think dug out all the stumps? A couple of seven-year-olds?”

“I know, right?” Ingrid posted up next to him, chuckling. “You and Glenn had blisters for _weeks_. I can’t believe they never put that together.”

She looked up at Sylvain, expecting to share a laugh, but then her brain caught up: she’d said the word, the magic mood-killing word, and now all traces of levity were gone from his face. Her own mirth soon followed, leaving a soundless chasm between them.

“-Anyway,” she said, swallowing a regretful lump in her throat. “Thank the Goddess they’re just dancing up there.”

Sylvain took the cue, brightening once more. “I don’t know; I’m a little disappointed.”

She sighed. At least this was better than awkward silence - barely.

“I mean, they have the perfect romantic atmosphere up here. Alone. Under the moonlight. Serenaded from afar.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Ingrid couldn’t help a tiny, infectious smile in return. “All I’m saying is: they’re really wasting it.”

At the top of the hill, Felix was leading Lady Byleth in tentative circles around the clearing, too absorbed in her to notice that they had an audience of two. Ingrid watched them with a familiar unease gnawing at her - but she couldn’t deny the peace and adoration on Felix’s face. Neither of them could.

“I don’t know,” she mused. “I think they’re taking it at their own pace. That’s important, too.”

“Oh? Suddenly you’re rooting for them?” Sylvain elbowed her in the ribs, grinning. “I thought this was ‘irresponsible?’”

Ingrid swatted at his arm, adjusting her bodice with a grunt. “It _is_ irresponsible. And dangerous; Goddess, if anyone saw this-” she turned back to gesture at the clearing, but was briefly struck mute again by the scene.

Eventually she managed, “He just looks so happy - how could I not want that?”

“I know,” Sylvain said, letting the side of his head fall against the tree trunk. “I know. But, hey, aren’t you glad you decided to attend with me? It went just like I said, right?”

She stared at him over her shoulder, stone-faced. He _had_ been right about Felix and Lady Byleth sneaking off at some point - and their status as partners _was_ a useful tool for shadowing.

“It was the best idea you’ve ever had,” she deadpanned.

Sylvain laughed, but there was a worried slant to his mouth. “Come on, Ingrid, you know I can’t tell if you’re joking when you do that.”

Instead of answering, she just turned back around enigmatically and let him stew in the confusion, smiling privately once he couldn’t see her anymore.

They observed the clearing quietly for a while. Ingrid’s heart melted a little when Felix and Lady Byleth stopped dancing and just held each other; she found herself wanting to lean back against Sylvain and do the same. Would it be so bad, she wondered, to indulge in that sort of support for once?

The next breath reinfused her thoughts with clarity.

Yes - yes, it would be.

“So,” Sylvain commented, bracing one forearm against the tree so he could loom over her from behind. “Three weeks, huh?”

She craned her neck to scowl at him. He _knew_ she hated when he used his height like this. “Probably more,” she groused. “We’ll have to follow up on any local leads we get before moving on.”

He hummed in disappointment. “It’ll be lonely here. Will you write me letters?”

“Write you- what-” she sputtered and lost the sentence, recovering with a sharp, “You’ve never been lonely in your life!”

Sylvain’s entire frame shook with restrained laughter. “Quiet down, Ingrid, do you want someone to hear you and discover our irresponsible friends?” He teased, bending until the tips of his red hair tickled her forehead.

“Really, though,” he went on, dead-serious. “Write to me. Please? I’ll write back.”

Under those soft brown eyes, pinning her in place with their sincerity, she could only nod and faintly agree, “Oh. Um- sure.”

Both her words and her tone came as a shock; she’d meant to push him off, but those damn eyes got her again. Sylvain was _so_ dangerous when he wanted something.

“It’s been a long time,” she said, voice still infuriatingly meek. “Shouldn’t we take them back to the others?”

He searched her face for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, stood up again and beat his fist lightly against the tree trunk. “Yeah, you’re right.” He cupped both hands around his mouth, calling jovially in the direction of the clearing, “Hey, you two! Break time’s over!”

Ingrid snorted. “You forgot about the sword, didn’t you?”

The mischievous glee on Sylvain’s face turned instantly to dread.

From the top of the trail, accompanied by the rapid, stomping approach of boots on dirt, came Felix’s ominous reply: “ _Sylvain_ -”

\---Midwinter Epilogue: Byleth---

The rest of the ball went by in a blur. Sylvain and Ingrid - after enduring a razor-edged tirade from Felix - directed them to where the other young nobles had gathered after dinner. Byleth vaguely remembered more parlor rooms, social games, smiles both fake and genuine - but she’d been so drained by the events of the evening that her body was mostly reacting to stimuli rather than actually engaging with anything.

Luckily, Felix had noticed and called them a carriage bound for Garreg Mach. Rhea and Seteth had already departed by that point, so Byleth felt good about how long she’d managed to last. It was difficult saying goodbye to Felix, though; in the end, before climbing down from the cabin, she’d settled for a quick squeeze of his hand.

 _Be safe_ , she’d murmured. Everything else she’d wanted to say - _don’t go_ ; _I love you_ ; _take me back with you_ \- remained securely locked away. Securely guarded.

 _You, too_ , he’d replied, fingers curling reluctantly around hers.

And now the carriage trundled off into the dark, leaving Byleth standing alone at the gate.

But she couldn’t rest yet - her night wasn’t over. Past the party and the parting was the confrontation; she knew it had to happen _now_ or she’d lose her nerve, so she tied on her veil and strode confidently down the monastery’s main path unattended. 

She made sure to pass the residential tower and dining hall on her way, maximizing the number of residents that would see her walking around alone, and didn’t stop until she’d reached the graveyard. It was quite late, so she met few others aside from the night patrols and those still preparing the morning meal, but she was certain that at least some of them had seen her.

Saints, vessels, and Archbishops were interred in the catacombs beneath the main temple, but regular clergy rested in a plot of land behind the gardens. It was here that her mother was buried, and it was in front of that tombstone, marked Sitri Eisner, that Byleth paused.

Usually, she visited twice a year - on Sitri’s birthday and the day she’d died - to clean the grave and tend the valerian that grew around it. Byleth had never known her mother; her experience was limited to Jeralt’s stories and a vague, inexpressible sense of lacking for a maternal relationship.

Half her life, she thought sourly, she’d been filling that hole with Rhea - with Rhea’s tepid affection and unyielding guidance. Rhea’s boundless expectations.

Byleth bit down hard on her lip to keep her emotions in check. It wouldn’t be long now before one of the priests or acolytes she’d passed reported her unusual behavior to Seteth and, if her thinking was correct, he would report this extreme irregularity to Rhea in turn.

During the course of the ball, Byleth had stepped publicly out of line several times. There was no way the Archbishop wouldn’t take this opportunity to reprimand her protege personally.

Sure enough, after another few minutes, the swish of cloth broke the stillness of the yard and Rhea announced her presence softly, “Child, what bothers you so?”

Her compassionate, patronizing tone pulled Byleth’s mouth into a thin line, but she didn’t turn. Instead she wordlessly unfastened a violet from her hair and bent to lay it atop Sitri’s gravestone; when she rose again, an iron rod ran parallel to her spine, solid and cold. The navy folds of her gown’s mantle fell about her like armor.

“I do not know what ignited this, but even grief does not exempt the Holy Maiden from her bindings,” Rhea said, her hushed footfalls whispering across the stone and coming to a halt before the grave. “But you know this well.”

In her periphery, Byleth saw that Rhea was still dressed for the ball, as well. Her elaborate headpiece, draped in strings of pearls and woven copper, lent her an air of authority even beyond what she carried naturally. She held her hands in front of her, folded properly, the very image of a pious and unshakable leader.

“So, tell me, my dear-” Rhea angled her head toward Byleth, but her eyes were fixed to the gravestone, tracing its engraved message: _Sitri Eisner, Sister of the Temple, resting in the warm embrace of cherished memories_. “-what drives your unrest this evening?”

Byleth considered her mentor, absorbing these last moments before their bond changed forever. She wasn’t sure _how_ it would change - if Rhea would react with fear, or anger, or perhaps even denial - but she knew that it would.

Still, she had to hear the other perspective.

With a clear voice, low enough to keep their conversation private but strong enough to convey her fortitude, she asked, “Was Sitri your daughter?”

Rhea didn’t answer immediately; as if she’d been expecting the question, she remained as quiet and statuesque as the surrounding rows of slabs. If not for the torch light painting them a ring of tinted color, she could’ve been a permanent fixture of the yard.

Incrementally, her eyes, laden as always with the rigors of time, shifted from the gravestone to Byleth. She remained otherwise still, disturbing not a single decoration on her crown.

“The Imperial Princess?” She asked, exhaling heavily when Byleth nodded. “I see.”

Her shoulders, perpetually set and regal, drooped.

“I had hoped to tell you this myself, when you assumed your rightful place,” Rhea said, her voice dim and paper-thin. “I had hoped that Ionius’s daughter would allow our past mistakes a respite.”

Byleth steeled herself against the sympathy that flooded her once more. “Tell me what happened.”

For a long moment, Rhea did nothing, inscrutable, her eyes dull and far away like she was awash in memories both pleasant and painful.

“Rhea,” Byleth said, reaching for her augur spike. She pleaded, firm but not unkind, “You can tell me now, or I can ask the Goddess - but I _will_ know. I deserve to know.”

Finally, Rhea’s pale lips parted and she seemed to come back to herself, focusing on Byleth’s spike and its silver chain. “Very well,” she said, understandably perturbed. Byleth hadn’t wanted to threaten augury, to leverage Sothis like that, but she felt that Rhea might have avoided the conversation otherwise.

“Sitri was, indeed, of my own flesh and - Lycaon’s.” His name tore out of Rhea, ragged and unwilling, and she brought one hand to her chest as if to staunch a wound. “No one could know, not even him. _Especially_ not him. We promised to-”

Her voice broke; she fell silent, closing her eyes while she brought herself back under control. Byleth waited, immobile and patient, ready to witness whatever Rhea had to give.

“We promised to never meet again; to eliminate the temptation.”

Byleth drew a measured breath. “Not even for your own child?”

“No. We were-” A nostalgic smile rippled across Rhea’s sorrowful expression. “I do not think I can adequately explain it. Lycaon was- he was kindness and caring and- freedom. He saw me.”

Her yearning darkened to hurt, her voice to self-chastisement. “But together we were foolish. _So_ foolish. We fancied ourselves Wilhelm and Saint Seiros reborn, flaunting our ignorance and willfully ignoring the truth.”

She fixed her student with a grim stare. “The Church was fragile, Byleth. I could never have abdicated. Nor could Lycaon abandon his own duty. Our callings were- incompatible.”

Flayn’s advice, so youthful and optimistic in hindsight, rushed through Byleth’s mind:

 _Love is beautiful and sacred, and the Goddess would not grant it to you in vain_.

She repeated it aloud haltingly, more to convince herself than anyone else.

“Oh, indeed,” Rhea said with the first hint of warmth she’d yet shown, brushing her fingertips over Byleth’s cheekbone. “My path was fraught with challenges, dear one, but nothing was in vain - I persevered, as did Sitri, and in the end the Goddess saw fit to bless us with you.”

Byleth recoiled, both from the words and the touch. She took a full step backward, stirring the air and causing the torch light to flicker and dance on their faces.

“She wouldn’t cause such suffering,” she asserted, her voice raw and rasping, “simply to obtain a new vessel.”

Rhea regarded her steadily, still smiling, and withdrew her hands inside her own mantle. “We, none of us, may grasp the extent of the Goddess’s plan for our lives.” She looked back to Sitri’s gravestone, continuing gently, “But all strife is a trade for prosperity, even if a single mind cannot comprehend Her scales of balance.”

If Byleth’s heart could beat, it would be hammering; her breath came shallow and fast, thoughts disorganized and racing. She’d heard sentiments like that her entire life, but to see it applied so callously-

“And I know you will bring us prosperity, dear child. I have seen it; you are almost ready,” Rhea said, so sure of herself, so resolute in her knowledge, and concluded:

“Perhaps now, in the absence of distraction, you may take the final steps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix and bel in the clearing: *evasive flirt-dancing*
> 
> sylvain from behind a tree: SHALALALALALA DON'T BE SCARED-


	23. Chapter 23

Over the next few days, Byleth kept to herself. The monastery was different after her talk with Rhea; lonelier, somehow, even though she’d always thought it restrictive and suffocating. People seemed further away than normal, like an extra layer - atop her robe, drape, and veil - separated her from them.

She attended her lessons and went about her daily business, but her breakfasts with Flayn were rushed and subdued; during her studies with Seteth, she spoke only to ask questions about the material. Her new, forbidden knowledge fought her every step of the way, pushing to get out from inside her mouth.

_ Does Seteth know? Flayn? _

She’d asked out of morbid curiosity; no answer would have satisfied her, she now realized. Either they had  _ also _ kept this from Byleth for over a decade - or Rhea was truly isolated, a prisoner to her own history.

And so, Rhea’s hushed, stern reply had come as neither a sting nor a balm:  _ No one, Byleth. And it must remain as such _ .

Byleth understood that position in a limited sense; relations between the Kingdom and the Empire were tense enough at present without additional friction from the Church. She couldn’t imagine that the general populace of either nation would be happy to hear that Adrestia’s blood entanglement within Church leadership - already a contentious topic for some - went even deeper than they knew.

But at the same time, what was the harm in informing Seteth and Flayn? Who would they tell?  _ Why _ would they tell anyone?

_ The structural integrity of the Church’s leadership is paramount _ , Rhea had replied; to Byleth’s ears, it had sounded a lot more like,  _ I am protecting myself from their judgment _ .

They’d parted on sour terms after that, unable to reach a compromise. Byleth had agreed to keep quiet for now, but as it stood, she couldn’t bear keeping such an important truth from Flayn forever; couldn’t bear joining Rhea in her chilled solitude with nothing but secrets for company.

That Tuesday night, paralyzed with indecision and faced with the imminence of her First Devotion duties, Byleth gazed out over Fhirdiad and questioned her assessment of Rhea’s actions.

Was it too harsh?

She couldn’t imagine being Archbishop at eighteen, alone and bearing not only a foreign ruler’s illegitimate child, but the entirety of a weakened Church on her shoulders. In such a position, what would she have chosen? To conceal and deceive, like Rhea and Lycaon, or to make everything public and endure the political fallout?

Byleth liked to think her fortitude could withstand the latter, but, having never been tested in such a way, she couldn’t say for sure.

Exhausted, she leaned against her balcony’s railing and tried to pick out House Fraldarius’s plot in the estate district. Felix would have a clipped but logical answer for her, another much-needed perspective on the issue, but she wouldn’t see him again for almost a month.

And if emotional distance from Flayn comprised one-half of her loneliness, then physical distance from him - the loss of a presence that had come to take up so much space in her heart, not just as a friend and a teacher, but as a confidant - certainly comprised the other.

She found her hand at her neck, caressing the smooth, tapered sides of her augur spike, and a notion in her mind to ask the Goddess precisely when he would return. Just as quickly, though, she dropped both her arm and the impulse; he’d asked her not to shed blood for him. Even when he wasn’t present to object, she must respect that wish.

Her fingers tightened around the railing when, down the hall, a door burst open and then slammed shut. Dawn had barely touched the night sky, washing black to gray-cobalt; this was an early visit, even for Flayn, and the frantic cadence of her footsteps told Byleth that this would not be a routine morning visit.

She gathered herself as much as possible, tightening the belt of her sleeping robe and making her way to the dining table. Flayn only did this after a particularly bad fight with Seteth - and, indeed, when the front door opened, her emerald eyes were reddened and puffy, her hair unbound.

Sniffling miserably, Flayn bypassed a greeting and rushed to the table; Byleth hurriedly stood again, opening her arms just in time to catch Flayn up in a crushing hug.

“The Imperial and Alliance caravans,” Flayn whimpered, voice and shoulders trembling. She pressed her forehead to Byleth’s lapels and clutched at her back. “They are- Ferdinand is departing today.”

Byleth took great care to remain a calm, solid anchor, even though the thought unbalanced her, as well. The caravans - one bound south to Adrestia, the other east to Leicester - would be accompanied by royal knights headed off on deployment.

“And Seteth won’t let you see them off?” She asked, hazarding a guess at the source of her friend’s woe. It usually involved Seteth or Rhea - much like her own struggles.

Flayn shook her head vehemently, disorganizing her loose curls further. “Nothing so unreasonable as that!” She insisted, raising her face. “Ferdinand wanted to visit again - only briefly; only to say goodbye - but Father refused.”

She stomped one foot resentfully. “He said it was ‘too early.’ Too early! Can you believe it? As if I or Ferdinand care for  _ timing _ .”

Byleth made an appropriately incredulous sound for the sentiment. At least, she thought as she idly smoothed down Flayn’s hair, that what she’d previously read as sorrow seemed to be cut with a great amount of offense. 

“When I pressed him, he recited the same argument you and I have heard so many times-” Flayn didn’t need to say it; ‘ _ cut our ties and relinquish our names _ ’ hung in the air like a third participant in the conversation, “-adamantly. Repeatedly. You know he does not often fall to repetition without explaining himself.”

Flayn cut a significant glance upward and Byleth had to stop herself from flinching away.

“Unless he’s under strict orders from Rhea,” Byleth supplied. A river stone, heavy and oblong, sank uncomfortably in her gut. She could think of several strong reasons that Rhea might have decided to bar anyone of Imperial origin from the monastery.

“-Well,” she said, switching topics before they passed into dangerous, secret-fraught territory, “did you get any sleep after this argument?”

Flayn’s eyes, drooping and irritated from crying, were answer enough, but she still shook her head sullenly.

“Then why don’t we lie down?” Byleth suggested, extricating herself enough to walk them both toward the bedroom. “You might feel better after a nap.”

“I will not feel better until Father apologizes to me  _ and _ to Ferdinand,” Flayn groused, yet allowed herself to be pulled along. She even crawled into bed while maintaining the same severe expression, but it softened somewhat when Byleth pulled the thick down blanket up to their chins.

Settling under its weight, Flayn finally relented, “Though, a nap might be nice.”

It was a poor substitute for revealing the truth behind her troubles, but Byleth still smiled when Flayn’s head sank into the pillow and her tired eyes fluttered shut.

Byleth did the same, only realizing how drained she was after allowing the mattress to assume her weight, allowing her body to relax after several nights of fretting and fitful rest. She let out a long, frayed breath, and drifted off.

\---

Three sharp knocks to her bedroom door brought her back to groggy consciousness.

“Byleth,” Seteth said sharply on the other side. “Rhea expected you in the academic tower nearly thirty minutes ago. Are you quite well?”

After a moment’s pause, he added less confidently, “Is Flayn with you?”

Byleth opened her eyes, finding her room much brighter than it should be - and then Seteth’s words caught up with her: she’d overslept. Beside her, Flayn stirred and slowly came to the same realization; the two stared at each other in mild panic, frozen to their pillows.

“Yes, she’s- feeling ill,” Byleth improvised, hoping that Seteth felt guilty enough about their fight to believe her. “I’m going to look after her today. Please tell Rhea that I won’t be available.”

Flayn covered her mouth to suppress a giggle, then uncovered it to whisper, “Can you do that?”

Byleth shrugged beneath the blanket.

“What-  _ available _ -” Seteth spluttered, and Byleth heard him step back from the door, as if his disbelief had compelled a retreat. “You cannot simply-”

“Father, please,” Flayn said, sounding properly frail.

They waited in tense silence while Seteth deliberated, and Byleth could perfectly envision the twisted grimace he must be wearing.

Eventually, a prolonged sigh sounded outside the door. “Very well,” he reluctantly agreed. “Flayn, I will have your dinner delivered here. Byleth-” he hesitated, then continued delicately, “-make sure that  _ you _ also get adequate rest.”

Byleth sat up enough to squint at the door. Only Seteth could make such a caring remark sound like a reprimand.

“I will,” she said, and then, “thank you.”

His footsteps withdrew across the living room; Byleth and Flayn locked eyes, unmoving, not even daring to breathe until the front door clicked shut - and then they both exhaled a torrent of giggles, muffling them with the hem of the blanket.

“I cannot believe that worked!” Flayn rolled onto her side, facing inward. “How often do you suppose we could do this?”

Byleth collapsed back onto the bed, dizzy with adrenaline. “Not as often as I’d like,” she mused, thinking about the specific intersection of guilt and opportunity they’d just exploited. “At least it got me out of First Devotion.”

She’d expected commiseration, but none came; looking down, she found all of the roguish delight gone from Flayn’s face.

“Are you and Rhea quarreling?” She asked in a small voice, gathering the blanket just under her chin. “You have both been so distant ever since the ball - and you have not told me a single detail about what happened there.”

Byleth refocused -  _ really  _ focused this time - on Flayn’s uneasy, insecure expression, and then cursed herself for not seeing it sooner. She’d been so blinded by Rhea and Edelgard and Felix and the attack; of course Flayn would be lonely. Of course Flayn would also be missing  _ her  _ lone confidant.

“Rhea and I had a- disagreement, but it’s nothing to worry about,” Byleth reassured her. She propped herself up on one elbow. “Do you want to hear about the ball?”

Flayn scooted closer, the corners of her mouth pulling into a tentative smile. “Was everyone just radiant? How did Felix look? Did he compliment your gown? Did he ask you to dance?” She took a breath. “Oh, and what about Prince Dimitri? Was he chivalrous? Did you speak with Lady Edelgard and Lord Claude? How did-”

“ _ Flayn _ ,” Byleth interjected, trembling with contained laughter. “We have all day. Let me start from the beginning.”

\---

Though brief, her respite with Flayn did much to settle Byleth’s nerves. On Thursday, she made it through an etiquette lesson with Mercedes without thinking about whatever Edelgard was hiding; by Friday, she was able to speak to Seteth without the impulse to blurt out Rhea’s entire life history.

Saturday, though, would be the real test, and she awoke to it preloaded with dread and staring up at her bed’s canopy. Only three moons ago, this aching, empty feeling was her baseline - had been her baseline for years. In three short moons, Felix had managed to overwrite a decade of isolation.

Byleth wondered, as she dressed for the day and wound her hair up underneath its drape, if she was getting greedy, to miss him so strongly already.

But she dutifully suppressed her loneliness and headed downstairs to meet Sylvain for tea - and thought she was doing a pretty good job of it, too, until he walked into the academic tearoom, took one pointed look at her outfit, and smirked.

“Routine, huh? Powerful stuff,” he said, whistling, as he unpacked their leaves.

Byleth looked down, saw that she’d unwittingly donned her lightweight training robes, and sank dejectedly into her chair. Perhaps this would be harder than she’d anticipated.

“Aw, it’s okay.” Sylvain hung their teapot over its small central fire and sat down opposite her. “I bet he’d be happy that you’re thinking of him. He was certainly thinking of you, look-” he dug around inside his coat pocket and produced a creased ivory envelope, then handed it across the table to Byleth.

“Yes, it’s from Felix. Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you,” he said with a chuckle, waving a second envelope between his fingers. “I got one too! From Ingrid. But I asked her for it.”

Byleth held the letter gently, like it might shatter in her hands. Instead of an address or any other delivery information, a simple ‘ _ F.F. _ ’ was written in one of the bottom corners and a larger ‘ _ B.E. _ ’ in the center, the handwriting just as honed and efficient as the man himself. 

“Wait,” she said, turning the envelope over and frowning. “Why’d he send it to you and not me?”

Sylvain, who’d been watching her inspection with a deeply amused grin, threw up his hands. “I don’t know why Felix does most things. It was bundled with Ingrid’s - which  _ was _ properly labeled - so I guessed that he wanted me to give it to you.”

She hummed thoughtfully, trying to remember if she’d ever told Felix that all of her official written correspondence was first read by Seteth. Whatever his reasoning, she was immensely glad he’d decided to use a third party.

“Not here,” Sylvain advised, nodding toward the entrance as she made to open the letter. “Unless you’d like to explain it to our guest, of course.”

Byleth hurriedly stuffed it into her lapels, noticing for the first time that he’d set out three cups instead of two. “Guest?” She asked, looking around the - empty, as per usual - student tearoom and spotting a head of shaggy blonde hair.

“Lady Byleth,” Dimitri greeted her cordially, taking a spot on the rarely-used third side of the table. “Sylvain. Thank you for inviting me.” He carried a wooden crate full of ledgers and sheafs of paper under one arm, setting it heavily on the ground by his feet.

“Your Highness,” Byleth said, inclining her head. She cut a glance at Sylvain and hoped it conveyed her confusion. “You’re not, ah- busy this morning?”

Dimitri laughed. “Oh, I am, as ever.” He retrieved one of the ledgers and opened it on the side of the tea table, far from the fire. “But I seem to recall that a certain Holy Maiden asked me to involve her in my work.”

Sylvain was quick to tack on, “Yeah, and I knew you didn’t have anything else going on today, so I invited him along with me.”

“Thanks, Sylvain,” she said flatly, leaning over the book. It looked to be a detailed twenty-year record of- “Produce taxes?”

She flipped the pages; they seemed to be arranged both chronologically and by inflation rate, showing a significant spike around five years in.

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s not terribly exciting, but this-” Dimitri tapped his finger next to the ledger, “-makes up the bulk of my day. I’m currently overseeing policies originally set by my father, since those are the most, hm-  _ overlooked _ by my uncle.”

Sylvain lifted the teapot to serve everyone, saying sardonically, “And if it makes you feel any better, I also had nothing going on. To the degree that I honestly thought, ‘hey, I should spend the day watching His Highness and Lady Byleth discuss  _ produce taxes _ .’”

Byleth swallowed an unrefined snort-laugh. “Lord Seteth has taught me such managerial calculations. I can assist you with this.”

“Oh, indeed?” Dimitri perked up, taking a quill and an inkwell from elsewhere in the crate. “Then we may jump directly to the parts that concern me.” He used the feather tip of the quill to underline a section of the page.

“Ah, the sudden rise? That wasn’t by design?” Byleth stirred a sugar cube into her teacup, noting the way that Sylvain kept absentmindedly patting his breast pocket as if to ensure that Ingrid’s letter was still there. She gave him a smile when he noticed, pointing subtly to where he was, again, repeating the motion, and he stopped immediately.

Dimitri, oblivious to the exchange, hastily jotted down some figures on a fresh sheet of paper. “Exactly, and no, it was not - my uncle became the Lord Regent five years after this was enacted, and he’s never paid strict attention to the more tedious regulations,” he said, fighting an obvious and losing battle to keep his voice polite.

“Coincidentally, the five year mark is where tax rates begin to rise disproportionately to inflation. I fear some crafty bureaucrat, somewhere along the line, may have taken advantage of the situation.”

He regarded Byleth apologetically. “And so, our task for today is to discover the exact disparity and correct it, then make a change to the official policy.”

She sipped at her tea, measuring the thickness of the record with her eyes, and then slowly shifted her attention to Dimitri. “You would normally do all of this by yourself?”

“Well- yes,” he admitted, diverting his eye back to his own notes. “If Rodrigue and Gilbert were busy elsewhere.”

Byleth sat back in her chair; she was starting to think ‘difficulty asking for assistance’ might be an inherited trait of Faerghus’s entire aristocracy.

“All right,” she said, setting down her cup with a decisive clink. “Where should we start?”

Dimitri eagerly pointed out a specific page. “Here. If we work in tandem, this shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

Her head snapped to the side when Sylvain made a tiny, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. He was holding his tea and hovering over the ledger like a bystander might observe a carriage wreck, keeping a safe distance from it at all times.

“You’re helping,” she informed him, tossing over an extra quill. 

Sylvain caught it with an indignant yelp. “What? Next you’ll be asking me to train later.”

His tone was light and teasing, but Byleth’s face burned. She actually  _ had _ planned to ask him to stay and spar - but Dimitri saved her from that particular confession.

“Excellent idea, Sylvain,” he said idly, head still bowed over the book. “Physical activity will be a welcome change by the time we’re finished.”

Byleth grinned triumphantly across the table; Sylvain deflated.

\---

_ Bel, _

_ Ingrid told me to write this, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been any good at writing letters. We haven’t even left Fhirdiad yet. I saw you two days ago. _

_ It feels like more than two days. _

_ How are you doing? Ingrid suggested that. I am curious, though. Did you speak with Rhea? Did she give you a satisfactory answer? _

~~_ I hope you’re okay _ ~~

_ Shit. This is my last parchment, so you’ll have to tolerate the mistakes in this one. I’ll order more before we depart. _

~~_ What do people talk about in letters? _ ~~

_ Remember to practice the lunge I taught you last week. I expect you to land it when I return. No excuses. Practice on Sylvain if you have to. _

_ I’ll be back soon. I look forward to seeing your improvement. _

~~_ Sincerely _ ~~

~~_ Yours _ ~~

_ Write me back, _

_ Felix _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flayn: if i run and jump at byleth, she will most certainly catch me in her arms
> 
> byleth: no! i'm holding [matriarchal and religious guilt]!


	24. Chapter 24

Byleth read over the letter again, imagining Felix furiously scratching this version out next to a small mountain of crumpled rejects, and muffled a giggle with the heel of her palm. She carefully slid her reply - a much longer piece in a vaguely-marked, nondescript envelope - into one of her wide sleeves.

She was rather proud of its mundanity; her first attempt, utilizing the dyed, high-grade parchment and scroll batons that were stocked in her office, had produced a letter that obviously originated from a wealthy Church of Seiros. This one, which used simpler materials swiped from the acolytes’ storeroom, was much more unassuming - much safer to transport.

After flapping her sleeve several times to make sure the letter wouldn’t fly out at random, Byleth tied on her veil and hastened out of her room. Neither Rhea nor Seteth had chastised her about skipping First Devotion last week, but she doubted they would be so forgiving if she arrived late this time.

In the hall, Mercedes fell into a quiet, easy stride beside her, as usual. Her companion always seemed to know whether or not Byleth was in a talkative mood, and then shifted her behavior accordingly - for that, and many other reasons, Byleth was eternally grateful for her continued support.

They passed few others on their way; this early, only the cooking staff and the night patrol walked Garreg Mach’s paths, light-footed and solemn in their tasks. Some of the clergy who doubled as teachers flitted about the library, preparing the day’s lesson materials, but the administrative floor above was darkened and silent.

Only Rhea - and Byleth, on Wednesdays - went up there at this hour.

Mercedes veered off at the tearoom with a bow and a nod, as was her habit, and Byleth spied Annette already sitting inside. It helped to know that Mercedes could enjoy herself during these times; that the entirety of her morning wasn’t spent waiting to shepherd the Holy Maiden around the monastery.

The door to Rhea’s private chapel stood open, spilling reddish candlelight into the unlit hallway. At the stark line where the light ended, Byleth hesitated, bringing the tips of her soft slippers to its edge.

They hadn’t spoken since their disagreement in the graveyard. Though it hurt her pride to admit it, Byleth was afraid of what else Rhea might say; what else she might confess; how she might further contort Byleth’s mental image of her.

But it wasn’t like she could just _avoid_ the Archbishop forever, either - an aspiring leader wouldn’t hide from confrontation. Right?

 _Right_ , answered a suspiciously Edelgard-esque voice in the back of her head.

With a resolute nod, she crossed into the light.

“Blessed morning, my dear one.” Rhea had her back turned, head tilted up at the carving of Sothis and Saint Seiros that adorned the sacristy door. She was dressed as usual, in her everyday mantle and gown, and nothing about her posture or tone was out of the ordinary, but - like a great many things in the monastery lately, and even the monastery itself - she seemed different. Worn.

Where, before, Byleth had seen security in the rigid set of Rhea’s shoulders, she now saw only weary fortitude; a dam fit to break, straining against overwhelming volume. The lone tree protecting an eroding riverbank.

“Blessed morning,” Byleth said quietly, coming to join her mentor. The rebellious energy she’d built up over the last week and a half drained out under the shimmering engravings of the Goddess and Her prophet. She wondered if those two had ever fought - surely, as mother and daughter, they must have. What family didn’t find itself in discord once in a while?

Rhea smiled down at her student, relieved - as if she’d expected Byleth to open with a challenge - and momentarily disappeared behind the massive door to retrieve four embroidered cushions.

“If you are amenable to the idea,” Rhea said as she laid them out, kneeling and arranging her sleeves at her sides, “I had thought to continue your weekly training sessions myself.”

Byleth, halfway to kneeling on her own cushion, faltered slightly; while she’d reconciled herself to First Devotions and incidental meetings around Garreg Mach, spending one of her very limited free days with Rhea sounded like- a lot.

Her hair drape blocked her from properly reading Rhea’s intentions, so Byleth replied carefully, “You have time for that?”

Rhea reached over to adjust Byleth’s sleeves, ensuring that the two were a perfect mirror image of one another. “Yes; I would not normally be able to commit to such a thing, but it is important to maintain a training schedule.”

Even with half of her periphery covered, Byleth saw Rhea’s head tilt to the side.

“Additionally,” she continued, “I wish to see what, exactly, your new instructor is instilling in you.” 

Sheer force of will kept Byleth’s face neutral, though it yearned to twist into a grimace. She’d never expected that Rhea would take enough of a personal interest in her combat lessons to test Felix’s methods - and she had a feeling there were at least a few particularly aggressive maneuvers that her mentor would _not_ enjoy.

But the sacristy door loomed behind them, the inlaid jade eyes of Sothis and Saint Seiros watching their imperfect vessels, unblinking, and Byleth couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Even if discord among family members was inevitable, it was also the family’s responsibility to find harmony again.

“All right,” she said, reassuring herself that it would only be for a short while - only until Felix returned. And if she spent more time around Rhea, perhaps this new uneasiness would fade; perhaps they could return to the sort of relationship they’d had before.

She didn’t relax until Rufus and Dimitri walked in, sparing her from the oppressive weight of Rhea’s sideways scrutiny.

“Good morning, Lady Rhea, Lady Byleth!” Rufus greeted them as joyfully as ever, plopping down onto his cushion with a grin. “I am so glad to see you’ve recovered, Your Grace. I sorely felt your absence last week.”

Byleth hid a smile behind her sleeve - so _that_ was the excuse Rhea had concocted for her truancy.

“Blessed First Devotion, Lord Regent,” she demurred. “I thank you for your concern.”

Dimitri knelt more formally, looking distraught. “I had no idea you were ill, Lady Byleth - had I known, I never would have bothered you with such an insignificant request. Please forgive me.”

This time, she couldn’t conceal the upward quirk of her mouth at the prince’s trust; rather than doubt her, he chose to believe that she’d been able to hide some mysterious sickness through an entire day of mental and physical exertion?

“Think nothing of it, Your Highness. It was no bother, and I would be glad to provide such aid again,” she said, inclining her head.

Rufus sighed indulgently. “There, there, you’ve been absolved - there’s no more need for such guilt. Incidentally, Lady Rhea-” he made a sweeping motion with his arm to indicate his nephew, “-my question this week is of a rather personal nature.”

The room took a collective breath; Byleth catalogued his past questions, wondering if he’d ever asked something that _wasn’t_ egregiously, disrespectfully personal.

Dimitri’s good eye narrowed. “Uncle, I hope this isn’t about our earlier discussion,” he said tightly, as if this topic - whatever it was - had grown thin between them.

“Present your inquiry to the Goddess without worry, Lord Rufus,” Rhea intoned, unendingly patient with the man, as usual. “And, Your Highness, have no fear; what is asked and revealed in this room does not leave it.”

Dimitri nodded curtly; if he harbored any remaining resistance, he didn’t show it - apparently, he was much more reluctant to oppose the Archbishop.

Thus enabled, Rufus launched immediately into action. “He refuses to court. Every gathering, I make sure to surround him with eligible noblewomen-”

“And I speak with them, as you request!” Dimitri interjected hotly.

“-Yes, but you never _pursue_ them, my boy.” Rufus regarded his nephew with a worried frown, then turned to address Rhea, “And so I ask the Goddess: where should I search for Prince Dimitri’s future wife?”

Byleth clenched her jaw for fear it might hit the ground. If Rhea ever pried into her business like this, she might destroy something; Dimitri seemed to be on the verge of something similar, holding himself perfectly still and rigid.

Without comment or judgment - at least externally - Rhea held out her wrist and spiked it, training her eyes on the spot where her blood pooled. Tendrils of it spiralled outward, but instead of forming a symbol, they thinned and molded themselves into the grooves of the floor’s wooden boards, flowing into cracks and whorls, spreading until they’d framed the entire space between the cushions in a crimson outline.

Surprisingly, Rhea’s eyes widened at the result, betraying more emotion than she normally would; after thinking about it, Byleth’s did, too.

“Your Highness,” Rhea said slowly, lifting her head as the odd blood sign evaporated, “you need not answer this, but: what keeps you from courting?”

Rufus flicked one wrist in a dramatic flourish and muttered, “I’d also like to know.”

The tips of Dimitri’s ears flushed bright red. “We’ve been over this, Uncle, I’m-” he stared hard at his folded legs, taking a deep breath and softening his tone. “Excuse my rudeness, Lady Rhea. I simply have not met the right person yet.”

“Met the right-!” Rufus guffawed, slapping his thigh. “You’ve danced with nearly every highborn lady in the country, and half the ones in Leicester - should I start looking in the _Empire_?” He shook his head incredulously. “Goodness, Dimitri, one might think you’re waiting for the Goddess Herself!”

After a beat of stunned silence, Rufus had the sense to amend, “Oh- beg pardon, Your Eminence, Your Grace.”

Rhea, in a rare moment of speechlessness, simply nodded. Byleth couldn’t even manage that much.

“Uncle, _please_ ,” Dimitri quite nearly begged, fisting his hands in his cape and asking Rhea with an air of desperation, “What did it say?”

Rhea folded her arms across her stomach protectively; it must have been subconscious, Byleth thought - or perhaps she just knew what to look for, now.

“You have, indeed, been drawing from the wrong pool.” Rhea spoke haltingly and, though her face remained neutral, she subtly drew herself back. “Lord Rufus, the prince’s spouse will hail from the Church of Seiros.”

Byleth knew the answer already, but she still winced sympathetically at Dimitri’s dumbfounded expression. She didn’t envy him at all; if he ever located this person, he’d need to run a political gauntlet in order to marry them. 

“I-” Rufus stroked his chin, crossing his other arm over his chest. “I see.”

Rhea kept hold of her augur spike as she turned to Dimitri. “Have _you_ anything to ask of the Goddess, Your Highness?” In much the same style as Seteth, she’d managed to make a routine question sound menacing with only the slightest inflectional emphasis. 

Dimitri cleared his throat awkwardly. “No, I’m- I have nothing to ask, Your Eminence.” He cast a bitter glance to Rufus and went on more coolly, “If you are satisfied, Uncle, then I will return to Fhirdiad - by your leave.”

“Ah?” Rufus blinked rapidly, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. “Ah. Of course. You have much to consider, after all, what with your intended being a-”

“If you would, Your Highness,” Rhea cut in authoritatively, “please escort Lady Byleth to the main temple on your way.” Her eyes flicked back to Rufus. “The Lord Regent and I have much to discuss.”

She placed a thin hand on Byleth’s arm, saying softly, “I will meet you there soon, dear one. This will not take long.”

Byleth suppressed the urge to shrug Rhea off, forcing herself to answer with a polite nod. “Of course,” she said, pleasant and practiced.

\---

“I’m- sorry about my uncle.” Dimitri didn’t specify exactly what he was apologizing for, giving Byleth the impression that he referred to the entire man - which would be appropriate, in this case.

“I know he’s crude, but I didn’t expect him to blaspheme in such a holy place.”

 _Oh_ , she thought. _That’s his biggest problem?_

The two descended the academic tower’s main staircase side-by-side, carrying with them an unintended ring of surrounding space as the morning rush of students, teachers, and acolytes hastened to clear a path for the Holy Maiden and the Crown Prince.

Byleth’s heart sank at the sight, but Dimitri was unfazed; perhaps he’d long grown accustomed to behavior like this.

“It’s fine,” she said, keeping her voice low enough to stop others from eavesdropping, and glanced up curiously. “What did you, um-” she reached for a way to abstract her question, so as not to break any rules, “-what did you think of the answer?”

Dimitri smiled wryly, keeping his reply just as vague. “My uncle’s concerns are not my own. You saw what my days are like: mending policies broken by the very one who seeks to distract me. I have no time for- other matters.” An echo of his earlier blush returned.

On the contrary, Byleth thought that affection for another might help him to loosen up a bit - it had certainly worked for her - but tactfully kept that opinion to herself.

“He’s been fixated on my future for years, but now that my coronation is near, he has become rather-” Dimitri grimaced, “-obstinate. Oh- but Rodrigue and I will prevent any inappropriate actions. You have my word.”

Byleth hummed, confident that Rhea was drawing similar boundaries as they spoke. Her mentor was historically opposed to Kingdom royalty meddling overmuch in the Church’s affairs - and the idea of Rufus playing matchmaker with random clergy sounded very much like meddling.

“Why is he so invested, though?” Byleth peered up at the prince, using the privacy of her veil to study him. Now that they’d left the company of Rhea and Rufus, his posture and manner of speech were slightly more relaxed - she’d noticed that last weekend, too. This comfortable Dimitri, confident in his political aptitude and unburdened by societal expectation, was much preferable to the one she’d danced with at Midwinter.

“Ah. Well.” He averted his eye. “As I’m sure you are aware, I am currently the sole heir of Blaiddyd. The sole _legitimate_ heir.” He pronounced the word deliberately, laced with scandalous implication. 

Byleth needed no more context; there wasn’t a soul in the Kingdom that hadn’t heard of the Regent’s wandering eye, and she’d recently awoken to the far-reaching consequences of illegitimacy, herself.

 _It could be worse_ , she thought, sparing Dimitri an amused glance. _One of your unfortunate cousins could have become the Holy Maiden._

As they passed by the tearoom, Byleth ducked in to excuse Mercedes from her second leg of accompaniment duty - and found that her companion’s tea table occupation had increased by one.

“Hey, Lady Byleth! Your Highness!” Sylvain shot up from his seat, jogging to join them in the hall. “Wow, that was quick. What’d the Goddess say this time?”

Dimitri quickly pulled his friend into the hallway, but wasn’t fast enough to stem the barrage of stares and whispers issuing from the room’s other inhabitants.

“Sylvain, you know I can’t talk about that-” his voice cut off abruptly as the two disappeared down the staircase; Byleth shrugged at Mercedes, who waved her off graciously with one hand, exhibiting all the poise and patience of a veteran caretaker.

Byleth flashed her as much of a smile as the setting would allow, then hurried off. They hadn’t made it very far - only out of the tearoom’s earshot, it seemed. When she caught up, Dimitri was still in the midst of a lecture:

“-a matter of national security, and I’d appreciate it if you took these visits more seriously-”

Sylvain groaned, letting his head fall back. “Okay, okay, I get it! I won’t ask about the auguries again. It was just a joke!” 

He caught Byleth’s presence out of the corner of his eye, a beleaguered expression morphing to excitement in an instant. “Your Grace, it’s so good to see you,” he said casually, as if the two of them hadn’t explicitly planned this meetup. “You having a ‘blessed First Devotion,’ as I keep hearing?”

Byleth swallowed a laugh and matched Dimitri’s pace, leaving Sylvain to follow along. “I am, Lord Sylvain, thank you for asking. What brings you to the monastery this morning?” She couldn’t see his reaction, but she did hear an indignant huff somewhere behind her. 

“I can answer that,” Dimitri said flatly, and Byleth almost blew her own cover again by coughing; she sure _hoped_ he couldn’t answer it. “He’s taking his assignment to ‘protect Fhirdiad’ much too seriously.”

The trio exited the tower’s main staircase onto the library floor, skirting the outer bookshelves to bypass the main bulk of migrating students.

Sylvain laughed, tempering his volume to fit the location. “Aw, come on, that’s harsh. What represents Fhirdiad better than its next ruler? If you think about it, I’m following Lord Seteth’s instructions to the letter.”

“Lord Seteth?” She looked back over her shoulder, brow creasing. “I thought you received your orders from the Knight-Captain?”

“Well, yeah, usually.” Sylvain squeezed between Byleth and Dimitri, taking advantage of the extra space to occupy the middle spot. “But since Captain Jeralt’s out of the city, his second-in-command, Ser Alois, asked Lord Seteth to help oversee the royal knights.”

Dimitri accommodated his friend’s jostling with only the faintest of frowns. “Indeed. Ser Alois is a capable fighter, but task management is not his strong suit. Lord Seteth has been invaluable to our coordination efforts of late.”

A shadow passed over Byleth’s thoughts. “Was he responsible for _all_ of the current assignments?”

“Oh, no,” Sylvain said, getting her hopes up only to dash them again, “I heard the deployments were personally arranged by Lady Rhea and Lord Rodrigue - something to do with the investigation.”

Byleth pursed her lips and filed that information away for later.

“ _Sylvain_ ,” Dimitri warned, scanning their vicinity. They’d made it onto the monastery’s main road, but since it was still fairly early for most of the clergy, their area was clear compared to the academic tower’s interior. The sun had barely crested Garreg Mach’s hilltop; the two other towers’ long shadows cut across the grounds, painting their path to the temple in stripes of light and dark.

“Right, right, national security. Sorry,” Sylvain said half-heartedly - but Byleth saw that he was also checking their surroundings. Apparently satisfied, he cast a mischievous glance down to her and surreptitiously held out one hand as if to receive something.

 _Oh_ , she realized. _It’s time_. Sylvain, by his own admission, had much more experience with covert handoffs, so she’d decided to leave the particulars up to him, but wasn’t this situation a bit public?

Byleth waited for Dimitri to start speaking again - something about the hierarchy of the royal knights - before slowly reaching into her sleeve to grab the letter. Sylvain’s response was much more streamlined; as soon as she slid it into his hand, he concealed it inside his casual riding coat. Before she could blink, his hands were back at his sides, as natural as ever.

“-Lady Byleth?”

She looked up sharply, met with Dimitri’s concerned gaze, and had to choke down a knee-jerk, panicked response.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she said instead, steadfastly ignoring Sylvain’s wide grin at her side. “My thoughts must have wandered.”

Dimitri’s expression softened to understanding, infusing her panic with some old-fashioned guilt. “That’s quite all right. I asked for your permission to join you and Sylvain for tea again this coming Saturday; there is much to be done, if you are agreeable.”

“I am, and you may,” she said, genuinely eager to apply her knowledge to real problems again. It was a far cry from discussing theology, ethics, and politics in a hypothetical sense with Seteth; before last weekend, she’d never known it could be _rewarding_.

Of course, the anticipation of another letter delivery from Sylvain made up the bulk of her enthusiasm - and he knew it, too, judging by the tilted smirk on his face.

“Yeah, it’ll be great,” Sylvain drawled, rolling his eyes. “Just the three of us, some tea, and a pile of Rufus’s mistakes. What could be better?”

\---

_Day 2 of the Guardian Moon, Royal year 2811_

_Felix,_

_How did you make it this long without learning to properly write a letter? Never mind. It’s simple: just tell me what’s going on where you are. What have you done since your last correspondence? Are you enjoying the mountains?_

_I’ve only seen the Oghma range in paintings. What is it like?_

_As for me, I’m well. Last Saturday was a lot more boring than usual without you, though Dimitri stopped by and I helped him rewrite some tax laws. If that sounds mind-numbingly dull, I implore you to consider my other options for activity at the monastery._

_He sparred with me afterward, and you’ll be glad to hear that I scored two wins from that incineration maneuver we’ve been developing. However, Dimitri left several holes in the floor and the walls - has he always been that strong?_

_Rhea and I couldn’t come to an understanding, but she did confirm everything. It’s been hard to be around her ever since. I’m trying to keep your advice in mind._

_I’m practicing diligently! Come back soon so I can beat you. And_ _please_ _thank Ingrid for suggesting this idea._

_Stay safe and well,_

_Byleth_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bel and sylvain, doing a midday drug deal on the church lawn: don't be suspicious, don't - be - suspicious


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! The 100k milestone! It's my first time seeing it \o/
> 
> In a move that will surprise no one, I'm taking another break - this time, to work on [Felileth Week](https://twitter.com/felilethweek) prompts. I tried again to write two things at once and...again...that just wasn't working out for me.
> 
> So! The next chapter will be here **~~Friday, July 17th~~** **Friday, July 24th**. (will I ever learn how to plan for recovery time? stay tuned and find out!)
> 
> See you then! <3

“‘ _It feels like more than two days,_ ’” Flayn recited, leaning back in her chair and holding Felix’s letter aloft. “Oh, Byleth, look - he misses you already.”

Byleth wrapped her wet hair up in a towel, plucking the letter from her friend’s hands on the way to her bedroom. _I miss him, too_ , she thought, looking over the oft-read parchment with a soft smile before setting it on her vanity.

With any luck, Sylvain would have another for her this morning - but reading Felix’s words, even if she could clearly hear them in his voice, just wasn’t the same as speaking with him. There were so many things she wanted to tell him, things too complicated or too inconsequential for a letter, that gave her pause throughout the day; things that made her place a hand over her heart and breathe deeply to dispel the loneliness.

Byleth did so again, now, willing herself to brighten up in Flayn’s presence.

“It’s not polite to read other people’s mail,” she mock-chided, pulling on a simple training robe. “And, anyway, that line could mean anything. Maybe he was just bored.”

Flayn popped up behind her in the vanity mirror, dull-eyed and unamused. 

“Must you persist with this denial?” She asked, grabbing the letter again and speaking over Byleth’s startled complaints, “No, listen to me: is it so hard to imagine that he might harbor some romantic sentiment for you?”

Byleth turned her head stubbornly away, gathering her hair over one shoulder to brush it. “I’ve told you before-” she squinted through the ache in her chest, “-Kingdom nobles don’t favor unions with Church members. Sylvain said it produces too many ‘conflicts of interest.’”

“Byleth,” Flayn said patiently, “I said nothing about a _union_ , nor do I care one whit for the Kingdom’s customs.”

She stilled Byleth’s hairbrush with a light hand, catching her friend’s eyes. “I am speaking of love in its purest form, without the shackles of law or tradition. Were he to return your feelings, would that be so terrible?”

Pinned by Flayn’s stern tone and the faint, yet insistent pressure of her hand, Byleth could only relent and consider the question. 

“Of course it wouldn’t be terrible,” she said, then instantly doubled back on her own thinking, “but we wouldn’t- we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

“And why not?”

Byleth’s arm went as slack as her jaw, her hairbrush impacting the vanity with a sharp click.

“All I am saying,” Flayn continued, “is that paltry things like _rules_ have never stopped you in the past - and they do not seem to hinder your Felix, either.”

Stuck between incredulity and laughter, Byleth could only shake her head slowly. “This- what you speak of-” _an illicit romance that could ruin the Church’s reputation_ , she thought nervously, “-is quite different than sneaking out to the lake.”

“Perhaps.” Flayn smiled, warm and comforting, and spun away from the mirror. “I only ask that you consider it. Remember: love is beautiful and sacred, and-”

“-And the Goddess would not grant it in vain,” Byleth finished, the familiar passage breaking her mental stalemate and eliciting a breathless, shoulder-shaking laugh.

Perhaps that was correct; perhaps, like sunlight nourishing a garden, love originated with Sothis - but it was up to _people_ to cultivate that gift.

Byleth trailed Flayn out to the balcony, looked upon her self-assured, innocently optimistic face, and wondered what would have happened if Rhea and Lycaon had nurtured their love instead of burying it.

“You really wouldn’t have a problem with me pursuing a clandestine affair?” Byleth teased, joining her friend at the railing and nudging her with an elbow. She’d asked it half-jokingly, but only half; she could endure Rhea’s and Seteth’s - and even the Kingdom’s - judgments, but she might just break beneath Flayn’s.

“My _goodness_ ,” Flayn lilted, falsely offended, “which parts of my literary preferences would suggest that I oppose such things?”

She regarded Byleth quietly for a moment, then said in a softer voice, “I wish only for your happiness, in whatever shape it takes. I am positive that, were this an unfavorable path for you, the Goddess would have led you away - but She did not.”

Byleth’s mouth pulled into a thin smirk. “Rather the opposite, I’d say.”

“Indeed!” Flayn giggled behind her hand, staring out over the monastery grounds. “I would agree that Her approval is most evident- oh, my.” Her voice fell flat; she jabbed one finger excitedly toward the temple, lifting her veil so she could see better. “Is that Prince Dimitri?”

Byleth looked in the direction Flayn had indicated, expecting to see Dimitri and Sylvain on their way to the academic tower; it _was_ Saturday, so perhaps they had arrived earlier than normal.

Instead she saw - well, it was still Dimitri and Sylvain, but they and a handful of acolytes were erecting some sort of tent next to the temple gardens. 

“Looks like they got tired of the tearoom,” she said grimly, watching as another pair of acolytes dragged over a warming brazier from a nearby building. “I’d better go deal with this before Seteth does.”

\---

“So? What do you think?” Sylvain spread his arms wide inside the bright blue pavilion, reclining in one of several folding field chairs that surrounded a long central table. “Believe it or not, this is the _least_ ostentatious one we could find at the castle.”

Byleth stood outside of it, looking up at the tent’s vaulted roof and the tiny flag whipping in the breeze atop it. “It’s, uh-” she followed stripes of Blaiddyd blue-and-silver fabric down its sides to the wooden stakes that secured it to the ground, “-festive?”

She stepped beneath the canopy, enjoying the way the sunlight filtered through it and tinted her training robe. “Are you celebrating something?” 

Sylvain coughed a laugh into his hand, drawing the disapproving stares of a passing group of priests. “What? No. His Highness doesn’t even celebrate his own _birthday_.”

“I’d thought to provide us a novel environment for working,” Dimitri explained, setting out a third teacup and filling it. He surveyed the pavilion with a hint of doubt. “Is it too much?”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s- certainly novel,” Byleth said quickly, pulling up a chair to the place he’d prepared. Explaining to two nobles how rare this sort of spectacle was at Garreg Mach seemed like a chore; besides, Seteth hadn’t shown up to gripe yet, so she supposed it _was_ fine.

Belatedly, as Sylvain’s words caught up with her, she inquired, “-You don’t celebrate your birthday, Your Highness?”

Dimitri winced and glared at Sylvain, who simply raised his teacup as if performing a toast. 

“I don’t,” he replied, directing a much more pleasant expression at Byleth. “I tire quickly of social gatherings, as you know, and my uncle used to hold a grand production each year.”

She nodded, understanding the dread completely. 

“Now, I insist on a quiet evening with friends, and nothing else,” Dimitri concluded, bending to retrieve several books and scrolls from a familiar wooden crate.

While his attention was diverted, Sylvain took a white envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table. Byleth snatched it up and tucked it safely inside her lapels, glancing around to ensure their privacy; the paths were empty and the pavilion’s roof blocked line of sight to the towers’ upper floors. _Good_.

The two had settled back into their seats by the time Dimitri sat up.

“And Rufus gets to funnel all of that extra energy into Midwinter, so it’s a win-win,” Sylvain said, continuing the conversation smoothly. He grinned at Byleth’s confused reaction. “Right, you probably don’t know- it was the twentieth day of the Ethereal Moon.”

Byleth deflated somewhat, stirring a sugar cube sluggishly into her tea. She fondly remembered neighborhood kids’ birthday parties from her childhood, and had looked forward to recreating those memories with her new friends.

“Oh, I sincerely apologize,” Dimitri said, flustered. “I didn’t know you would want to- ah, in any case, it will be much more significant next year, as it coincides with my coronation; we will surely all celebrate it together.”

“I’m the only one of us who really _does_ anything for their birthday,” Sylvain complained, then snapped his fingers at Byleth. “But I guess that’s not true anymore, right? Yours is a pretty big thing.”

She hid a sour expression behind the rim of her cup. The Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth, a celebration of the day Sothis first inhabited a divine vessel, was also considered each Holy Maiden’s ‘day of birth.’

“Indeed,” she said curtly. Now that she was Inducted, this year’s Rite would probably be loud and annoying enough to rival any of Rufus's parties - but she could worry about that later.

“What have you got for us?” She asked, staring pointedly at the small pile of scrolls on the table.

Dimitri perked up, unfurling one and anchoring its corners with their tea saucers. It looked to be an architectural plan for a bridge, drawn over in several layers of progressively newer ink. Each layer depicted a slightly different design for the bridge’s walls, and the margins were full of neat, tightly-packed lettering.

“I’ve brought a more current problem today,” he said. “One that you may recall. Sylvain-” he glanced sharply across the table, “-close your ears for a moment.”

Sylvain obediently cupped his hands over his ears, humming a surprisingly accurate rendition of a Seirosian hymn. 

“Last moon, I asked you for an oracle regarding the royal road system.” Dimitri unrolled another map and laid it beside the first; it depicted what she assumed to be the finished roads, connected seamlessly to all of the major cities in Faerghus and even some in Leicester.

“I remember,” Byleth said, tracing the system with her eyes. _Three feathers_. “Have you encountered your cost yet?”

“Yes, I believe so,” he said, frowning down at the first map. “I believe the cost of these roads is a social one, and it takes the form of one Count Gloucester. Oh, Sylvain, you can listen again,” he added as an afterthought.

Sylvain, without even trying to maintain the illusion, dropped his arms at once. “Great. So he’s getting in the way of your roads?”

Byleth laughed softly into her cup, sipping at it leisurely.

“He is. The Great Bridge of Myrddin is the royal road’s final destination,” Dimitri said, pointing to where the two entities connected on the map. “ _Unfortunately_ , it is in Gloucester territory, and Alliance law states that I must negotiate directly with the count - who insists that our roads blend seamlessly with the bridge.”

Byleth squinted at some of the finely printed comments on the map, picking out phrases like, ‘ _The crenellations should feel more whimsical_ ,’ and, ‘ _Tapered flagstones will bring in a breath of fresh air_.’

“It looks to me like he’s redesigning the whole thing,” she muttered.

“Yes, well.” Dimitri sighed deeply. “He _is_ . The count suddenly decided to stall the entire project in order to ‘ _bring the Great Bridge stylistically into the current era_.’”

Sylvain chuckled lowly. “And I’m sure that has absolutely nothing to do with Duke Riegan’s cooperation orders.”

“Doesn’t Count Gloucester support the Empire politically?” Byleth asked, recalling their friendly seating arrangement at the Midwinter successors’ dinner.

“Yes and yes,” Dimitri said wearily, leaning over the maps. “So you see why I require aid: this is not simply a structural issue.”

With a two-toned whistle, Sylvain grabbed a teapot from a nearby serving table and refilled everyone’s cups. “Well, all right then. Let’s figure out what this guy wants.”

\---

_Day 4 of the Guardian Moon, Royal year 2811_

_Bel,_

_I know how to write letters. I just don’t write them very often, and nothing more detailed than an incident report, usually._

_What kind of a question is that? Of course I’m not ENJOYING the mountains; I’m doing a job. All of these mining towns look the same to me. Ingrid goes in to talk to the owner, I back her up, and Ashe keeps an eye on the area. It’s so routine I could do it in my sleep._

_We’ve learned nothing valuable so far. Nobody recognizes this metal. I guess that’s valuable information in itself, but I’m going to die of boredom. Our unit is wasted on this task._

_The Oghma range is frozen almost year-round on our side. Paintings and plays make it out to be beautiful, but that’s only on the Adrestian side. I’ve been there a few times to hunt. During the harvest moons, the trees are all shades of red and yellow. You’d like it. There are lots of lakes._

_Yes, Dimitri’s always been a freak of nature. I hope you crushed him into dust. Let’s see him underestimate you now._

_Tell me more about Rhea. You sounded frustrated with her at Midwinter, and you seem frustrated now. If I can help, I will._

_We’ve cleared almost a quarter of our route. Still on schedule to return before the next moon._

_Ingrid says Sylvain started this whole thing. Unsurprising. I guess you can thank him for these lovely little exchanges._

_Stay vigilant,_

_Felix_

\---

It was easy to forget Rhea’s combat prowess.

She spent much of her time cultivating the opposite image: that of a gentle, nurturing mother-figure dressed perpetually in silks and never in weaponry. Her voice rarely climbed above a tranquil murmur, even when giving orders or reprimands, and Byleth couldn’t recall a single instance where her mentor had appeared threatening or dangerous - in public.

Here, in the monastery’s training room, Rhea had foregone her navy-and-gold mantle for a laboring robe similar to Byleth’s; she stood in the wooden half of the hall, poised defensively on the boards and holding a practice sword at the ready.

This was the Rhea that most people would never see - the one that had transformed in an uncertain time and learned to defend herself not out of interest, but necessity. This Rhea, who’d traded her kind gaze for hardened readiness, made it impossible to forget her ability.

Byleth grabbed her own training blade and took up a starting position, but the formal stance felt awkward now - she’d grown used to Felix’s nonstandard sparring practices, which were based more on perception and reaction speed than custom.

“I have no techniques to impart today,” Rhea said, solidifying her posture. “Instead, I would like you to show me what you have learned.”

She brought her sword up in a Kingdom-style weapon salute. “To first blow.”

Byleth returned it. She’d been considering which elements of Felix’s instruction to display and which ones to conceal - which combination would be most likely to please Rhea. Eventually, she’d settled on another option: the best way to convince someone of a fighting style’s merits was to use it to defeat them.

She pushed off on one foot, traversing the gap low and quick to meet Rhea’s blade, striking it with a resounding crack and turning it to the side.

Rhea jumped back and changed her grip, moving in that fluid way that had annoyed a younger, less experienced Byleth to no end - but current Byleth, who hadn’t fought Rhea in moons, found that she could track her mentor’s path more easily than before.

“No observation,” Rhea commented evenly, twisting to parry another swing. “Impatient.”

Byleth grunted and tried a different angle, pushing Rhea toward the far wall. She couldn’t allow this to become a test of endurance - those were Rhea’s specialty; she had to end it swiftly.

Their blades clacked together once more, and Byleth used the forward momentum to make a grab for Rhea’s. She caught the barest flicker in her mentor’s eyes - a spark of recognition as Byleth channeled holy power into the weapon.

The explosion sent them both sliding backward in opposite directions, shielding their faces against red-hot debris; Byleth was accustomed to the shockwaves by now, recovering at once and regulating her breaths while the smoke dissipated.

It thinned and dispersed on the wind, revealing Rhea’s composed, unmoving form. She still held the blackened hilt of her training sword, staring down at the jagged wood.

“First blow,” she acknowledged, letting it fall from her hand. When she raised her eyes to Byleth’s, they were tight and analytical. “I yield.”

Byleth straightened up, proud of her victory but nervous about Rhea’s tone. That reproachful cadence usually signaled an incoming lecture - and so she waited for it.

“These methods are reckless,” Rhea said, stepping over the fresh scorch marks on the floor. “Impulsive. They leave you unguarded.”

She lifted a new training blade from a rack on the wall. “Byleth, you are not learning to fight in order to harm others - you are learning how to protect yourself. To preserve your own life.”

Byleth tightened her grasp on her sword. “What if the best way to protect myself is to shut down my enemy?”

“Sometimes that may be the case,” Rhea acquiesced, walking calmly back to her starting position. “But such surprise tactics will not work on the same opponent more than once, as I will now demonstrate.”

She paused before taking up a stance again, eyes falling to the remnants of her old weapon. “You showed a layman the punishing flame.”

 _And the healing flame_.

“I did,” Byleth answered. “It’s not explicitly forbidden, and I judged it useful for combat.”

The corner of Rhea’s mouth twitched. “You have grown so decisive of late, my dear one. Let us hope Lord Felix is worthy of such trust.”

Byleth set her jaw, stopping herself from saying anything she might regret. Impotent rage simmered just beneath her skin, agitating her inner flame, tensing the muscles in her shoulders and back.

 _I am not you_ , she thought defiantly, sinking down in preparation to strike. _And Felix is not Lycaon_.

“Let us begin again,” Rhea said, and Byleth gladly obliged her.

\---

_Day 8 of the Guardian Moon, Royal year 2811_

_Felix,_

_You’re not having the least bit of fun while traveling? I can’t imagine that; our spot in the forest is the farthest I’ve ever been outside Fhirdiad. Just reading your descriptions of the mountains is exhilarating. What about the towns? I know they’re boring to you, but maybe telling me about them will improve your view?_

_I would indeed like to see that. On the slim chance that Seteth ever allowed me to go hunting, I would very much like to see it with you._

_It’s difficult to speak about Rhea, but perhaps writing will be easier._

_Where should I even start?_

_She trusts no one, not even her fellow vessels. Not even me. She’s supposed to be my mentor, but she’s kept so many secrets. And now she wants me to keep those same secrets, as if they’re a prerequisite to the station of the Archbishop._

_I’m trying to forgive her, but every new thing I learn makes it harder. I think she was responsible for sending you away. If that’s true, it means your absence is my fault - I don’t know how to reconcile that._

_How many times must I confront her? Every time I stumble across something she’d rather I not know? Or do I keep it quiet and become more like her with every secret? I know that’s what she wants. I won’t. I refuse._

_I guess it was easier to write about than I thought. You should give this a try; maybe tell me why you get so cold when it comes to Dimitri. You don’t have to, but I feel the same as you: if I can help, I will._

_Rhea called your closing maneuvers ‘impulsive.’ I didn’t tell her that you called her a coward. In hindsight, I agree with you._

_When is your birthday?_

_Stay safe and well,_

_Byleth_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix @ byleth: your mom is a weakling who sucks
> 
> rhea @ byleth: your boyfriend is an idiot baby


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back!! thank you again for being patient with me while i hurt myself during a theme week (lol...)

_Day 12 of the Guardian Moon, Royal year 2811_

_Bel,_

_I’ve never associated ‘travel’ with ‘fun.’ Road rations are bland at best, the weather in the foothills is unpredictable, and small-town villagers don’t typically like to talk to knights. All-in-all, a terrible experience._

_But I guess I’ve never traveled anywhere by choice. Perhaps it would be different in good company. Were you to obtain your wardens’ permission to hunt, I’d gladly take you._

_Trust me, you don’t want to hear about these mining towns. The people are poor and their skills mismanaged; it’s not idyllic or quaint. It just makes me want to punch Rufus more than usual._

_You’re not obligated to forgive Rhea, no matter what anyone says. She’s lied to you for your entire life and is probably still lying. Protect yourself. She certainly is._

_And - since you wrote about Rhea, I suppose I should reciprocate._

_It’s been a full day since my last addition to this letter. Talking about myself doesn’t come naturally._

_I’ll try._

_There isn’t much in my life that’s completely mine. Everything I can think of - my home, my family, even my sword arm - is, in part, Dimitri’s. That might sound natural on paper. Nobles serve their liege, right? But I hate it._

_My older brother died in the Tragedy. Both of Dimitri’s parents, too. We were thirteen. It was terrible. My father basically adopted him afterward._

_I get it now. He needed the support - they both did. My father was trying to honor his dead king’s memory, as asinine as that is, and Dimitri wasn’t getting any help from Rufus. But back then, he was like a parasite on my life, sucking out what was left._

_To be honest, I still feel that way sometimes. It’s hard to look at him and not remember Glenn; to not see my father’s preferred son._

_And so I don’t like to share anything with him, when I can help it._

_There. It took two days, but there you go._

_Why do you want to know my birthday? It’s the twentieth day of the Pegasus Moon._

_When is yours?_

_Still on course,_

_Felix_

\---

In the unstable, ever-shifting landscape of Byleth’s perceptions, Seteth’s office was a constant. 

The polished oak desk - from which she’d learned the intricate and winding histories of the Church - and the translucent mesh curtains - the hazy barrier that shielded her from passers-by - hadn’t changed in a decade. Neither had the scrolls in the cabinet, nor the faint track of scuff marks her tutor had, over countless lectures, paced into the floorboards.

Byleth could remember a very recent time when the connotations of this constancy were negative - when the dark, windowless walls and sparse layout were nothing but symbols of imprisonment. But she’d found that this room and its owner were insulated, in their permanence, from the creeping aftereffects of Rhea’s deception.

While the temple and the graveyard and even her own chambers looked different in her eyes - tainted - this room remained its usual, unremarkable self. Still stifling, yes, still a reminder of her status - but reliably so.

She could appreciate that now. Sitting in Seteth’s chair and scratching out notes had become comforting anchor points to start and end her weeks, rather than the chores they once were.

“-And thus we come to the short and turbulent reign of Archbishop Aldwin, Twelfth Divine Vessel of Saint Indech,” Seteth intoned, closing his heavy history codex. The cover fell with a solid thud and a faint puff of dust. “But his story will have to wait. Let us hasten to the library.”

Byleth’s writing hand stilled; she blinked owlishly at the ticked candle that lit her parchment and, indeed, their morning lesson was already over. Somehow, three hours of various Archbishops’ biographies had flown by and - she subtly confirmed - she’d even taken good notes on them.

Perhaps all the motivation she needed to focus on her studies was the looming threat of Rhea’s presence. The three of them were meeting, like they did at least once weekly, to perform compound oracles as part of their investigation into the attack.

Her left wrist ached prematurely.

Wordlessly, Byleth nodded and began the process of draining and drying her quill. If she dragged out the task, if she really got in there and made sure the channel was clear, well - Seteth could accuse her of nothing but attention to detail.

He did watch her, though, and closely, as he replaced the codex on a shelf, frowning pensively askance. She pretended not to notice; like Flayn, he’d probably seen the strain between herself and Rhea. Byleth could only hope his dedication to propriety would stop him from commenting on it.

Eventually, there was no more ink to squeeze from her quill and no more reason to tarry. She packed up the rest of her things reluctantly and met him at the door.

“Byleth,” he said, quiet and hesitant, as they stepped into the hall. “I have observed a- a _change_ in you, of late.”

She had enough discipline to keep herself from stumbling, but her fingers tightened around her scroll case until the rigid leather whined beneath the pressure.

Seteth, misreading her reaction, was quick to continue, “I mean no criticism. In fact, I am quite impressed with your newfound attentiveness - I only wonder at its origin.”

Beneath her veil, she let out a slow, relieved breath. Of course he hadn’t guessed at Rhea’s secrets; almost no one could, she thought. That was the point.

“At Midwinter - and even before - I met so many people who are ready to be leaders,” she replied, glad for a topic on which she could be truthful. “I simply realized that I need to catch up to them.”

“Ah. Midwinter.” Seteth’s lips flattened to a line; it was a sore subject between them, still, given the number of times she’d bent tradition, but he seemed to decide against airing those grievances again.

“Well, it is fortunate that those around you have provided such positive influence,” he said instead, the corners of his mouth quirking upward into a rigid half-smile. “I am, of course, overjoyed that your ambitions have awakened. If you continue at this rate, you should be ready to ascend within a year.”

This time, Byleth did falter, catching herself on Seteth’s arm.

“A year?” She asked, mortified. Normally, vessels weren’t even Inducted until the age of twenty-five, much less coronated.

Seteth helped stabilize her, his other hand hovering fretfully in case she stumbled again. “Yes, but it was only a suggestion; please, calm yourself.”

As Byleth took his advice, he relaxed as well, folding his arms inside his sleeves. “We are blessed to live in an era with four divine vessels,” he said, pausing to allow a pair of acolytes to descend the main staircase before them. “And our sitting Archbishop is sound of mind and body.”

Byleth wasn’t so sure about that one, but she let it pass without comment.

“Because of this, you have the luxury of choosing your own time of ascendance, but I believe it would be best coordinated with Prince Dimitri’s crowning.” Seteth nodded along to his own idea, like he was enjoying the sound of it more and more. “The two of you could present a unified front to the people, and Rhea has already chosen an auspicious moon for the occasion.”

Contrary to his own thought process, Byleth’s opinion of this idea was in steady decline the longer he talked. Reciting scripture in the temple under the weight of Rhea’s headpiece would be unpleasant; doing that in Castle Blaiddyd, in the midst of whatever event Rufus concocted around it, would be torturous - especially in light of Felix’s most recent letter.

She prodded warily, “But it _is_ only a suggestion, right?”

“Hm?” Seteth looked over, finger stroking his chin under his veil, jostled from whatever dual-coronation horror fantasy he’d been building. “Oh. Yes, certainly; however, I would urge you to consider it.”

At least he wasn’t ordering her. He’d been extending her such small freedoms fairly often since Ferdinand’s and Hubert’s first visit to the monastery; maybe she’d passed his test.

“I will,” she said, having absolutely no intention of doing so.

They descended the main staircase in a companionable silence, broken only by the low chatter of clergymen and women heading to their afternoon duties. Despite her usual presence in the residential tower, Flayn was not among them, a fact that Seteth seemed to notice, also, as he craned his neck to spot her among the travelers.

Byleth, so far, had been determined not to involve herself in their dispute, since they hadn’t pried overmuch into her quarrel with Rhea. But every lesson day, when Flayn obviously avoided meeting her father in transit to the library, Seteth’s shoulders drooped a bit more - and so did Byleth’s resolve.

Today, when a little, forlorn sigh escaped him, fluttering the hem of his veil, she finally relented. When they’d exited the tower, she prompted him gently, “Have you spoken with Flayn?”

He looked down in partially-obscured chagrin - wondering, perhaps, if his loneliness was too overt. _Yes_ , Byleth answered mentally, but she only recognized it because it mirrored her own. She probably looked much the same every week when the wrong person walked through the door of the training hall.

“I- no,” he admitted, low and frustrated. 

Dirt crunched beneath their soft slippers, hill-warblers called out from nests hidden in the towers’ eaves, and Byleth waited patiently for him to gather himself.

“She will hear nothing from me but an apology,” he said as they passed the temple. The acolytes on gardening duty stopped their work to offer salutes; Seteth kept his voice subdued. “As you surely know.”

Byleth inclined her head, both in agreement with him and acknowledgement to the laborers. “I do. You aren’t ready to apologize, then?”

“There is nothing to-” he bit off the indignant hiss, reining in his tone with a regretful grimace. “Forgive me. I am- I have never gone so long without her.”

Seteth inhaled deeply, hands fidgeting within his sleeves. “I have not adequately taught you two about the Church’s sordid history with the Empire. I am aware that Flayn’s carefree attitude toward House Aegir is a result of that negligence, and I aim to remedy that, but-” he exhaled harshly, “-I do not regret being the only one to tread carefully in a politically delicate situation.”

He shot Byleth a particular glance - not exactly stern, not unkind, but deliberate. It spoke of mended bridges, letters, and late nights; reparations for her transgressions at the ball, she realized, and then kicked herself for not seeing it sooner.

She’d been trying, however gracelessly, to struggle free of Rhea’s influence - but Rhea, in her seclusion, would never have been the one to clean up after that behavior. Rhea had no contact whatsoever with the Empire.

That task, like so very many others, had fallen to her overburdened advisor.

“Raise your head,” Seteth murmured, lightly touching Byleth’s arm. “I did not prepare you and Flayn well enough for such interactions. My own experiences make the topic- difficult to discuss, but that is no excuse.”

He pursed his lips, slanting his eyes up the academic tower. “Nor are you two the only ones of whom I speak.”

Byleth followed his gaze to a particular window, darkened since its owner was presently waiting in the library, and nearly gasped; though nonspecific, it was the first time in over a decade she’d ever heard Seteth criticize Rhea in any capacity.

“I still think you should apologize to Flayn,” Byleth said quietly, “if the blame for her ignorance lies with you, as you say, and her only crime was love for her cousin. And-” she met his questioning look with a smile, “-after that, Flayn and I can apologize for creating so much paperwork.”

Seteth’s brow smoothed out; he chuckled and shook his head. “Yes, I find that quite reasonable. And, perhaps,” he said, a tentative peace offering, “I could answer any questions you two have about the Empire?”

“Perhaps you could,” Byleth replied, finding a great sense of relief in his hopeful eyes.

Their conversation lapsed as they entered the academic tower, letting the library’s firelit ambience swallow them all at once. Rhea stood in the center of the room, in the space normally reserved for lectures and discussions. It had been cleared, as usual, of both seating and occupants, leaving an open area for their oracles.

A few of the younger clergy - augurs to aid in interpretation and scribes to record the blood signs - waited on the fringes, directing any onlookers to the exits or the winding staircase. They closed the main doors behind Seteth and Byleth, saluting respectfully before resuming their posts.

“Blessed morning,” Rhea greeted them softly, drawing back her long sleeves in preparation. “Do you recall our previous conclusions?”

Byleth did the same, tying up her sleeves like she would before a lesson. At the third position, the final point in their triangle, so did Seteth. The routine efficiency of it helped her ignore the discomfort of Rhea’s proximity.

_You don’t have to forgive Rhea._ Felix’s words swirled around in her thoughts, a needed companion. She clutched her augur spike, stroking the cold silver and reminding herself that its repeat stings, the mental endurance, the fatigue, were all for good reasons. 

“The attackers are part of a larger group, and Tomas was not his true name,” Byleth recited. 

“But we could not determine a centralized seat of power,” Seteth added. “I presume we will proceed along that line of questioning?”

Rhea nodded to a nearby scribe, who unrolled an inked map of Fodlan and laid it out in view of the three vessels. “Indeed, we will. I wish to discover the structure of their organization today, if our blood allows it, and potential locations.”

She scanned over the map, then looked to her fellow vessels for confirmation. Early on, they’d established the order in which they posed their questions. Rhea would wait until everyone had chosen, then the three would ask in quick succession, starting with her and ending with Byleth.

The timing was critical; if the magic was too spaced out, then their oracles wouldn’t meld. With over a moon of trial and error experience, though, they’d developed a consistent rhythm.

When the other two had indicated their readiness, Rhea braced her feet and raised her spike.

“How large of a force does our enemy possess?” She asked, clear and commanding, and brought the metal down on her wrist. A rivulet of blood pooled on the floorboards, branching off in several directions.

Before it could form a complete sign, Seteth contributed, “From how many areas do they operate?” 

His blood joined with Rhea’s, augmenting the numerous, still-indistinct shapes of their answer.

“Where is their influence concentrated?” Byleth asked, adding her blood to the mix. Seteth shot her a brief, approving glance, and she smiled confidently. She’d been formulating that one all week.

Her trickle of red melded into the others’, but it didn’t travel out to meet the arms of the fledgling sign; instead, the existing tendrils came to an abrupt halt, flowing back into the central mass. 

It quivered for a moment as if indecisive, then spread into the grim, angular visage of a human skull. Its canine teeth were elongated and its forehead forked into two curved horns, lending it a sinister, bestial aura.

Byleth leaned over it, peering down in confusion. It wasn’t unusual for a blood sign to change its shape in a compound oracle, but she’d been expecting a more geographical answer. She failed to see how a strong symbol of death correlated to their inquiries, but that was simply the nature of this form of augury, she supposed. They wouldn’t receive a complete picture until they’d compiled many more pieces.

With a thoughtful hum, Rhea motioned for a scribe to record the image. After the blood sign evaporated, she re-poised her spike and rephrased her question, “Are our enemy’s forces consolidated or split?”

Seteth, after a breath of thought, specified, “Do they occupy several locations concurrently?”

“Do those locations span multiple countries?” Byleth finished, wincing at the second pierce. She tried to keep them shallow, to only break the skin, but augur spikes were surgically keen; it was impossible to avoid their bite entirely.

Her blood, again, pooled with Seteth’s and Rhea’s. Their answer, which looked to be the base of a mountain or a cliff, still in its early stages, once more paused at the third addition, then unmade itself.

All three vessels crowded in this time, wearing matching expressions of disbelief as a skull - sharp, distinctive, and identical to the last one - formed before them. It stared upward, unseeing, the tiny pinpricks of its pupils fixed on the library ceiling.

Seteth, frozen with one arm outstretched, mouth open to call over a scribe, slowly locked eyes with Rhea and shut his jaw with an audible click. Byleth alternated her attention between her two mentors, mildly panicking but not wanting to alarm the acolytes.

“Everyone, please vacate the library,” Rhea said, perfectly calm despite the situation; never, in the long history of the Church - and even before that, in the scant surviving records of ancient Zanado - had the Goddess ever bestowed the same answer twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byleth, looking at seteth and internally screaming: ???
> 
> seteth, looking at rhea and internally screaming: ?!?!?!


	27. Chapter 27

All was quiet as the scribes and augurs shuffled obediently out of the library. Some cast curious glances over their shoulders - and some seemed determined not to view the skull at all, exiting with haste and clutching fearfully at their spikes - but none challenged a direct order from the Archbishop.

When the last slipper whispered across the threshold and the heavy wooden doors creaked shut, the aberrant blood sign evaporated with a thin hiss.

Byleth and Seteth exhaled heavily in the silence, relieved of the need to remain composed in front of the younger clergy, but Rhea looked the same as always: unmoved, unfazed, unbothered.

“There is no cause for alarm,” she said, laying out the scribes’ charcoal drawings of the skull next to their formation with slow, measured movements. “An anomaly merely draws the eye of the augur; we must discover for whom it was meant, and why.”

Byleth regarded the sketches dubiously. Yes, there were documented instances of similar anomalies - like the fourth vessel of Saint Cichol, who’d received an omen of his own demise at the hands of assassins - but never one that rattled the very foundations of blood augury.

“Three thousand years of prophetic theory, shattered.” Seteth crossed his arms protectively over his chest, giving voice to his student’s worries. “And such an occurrence is ‘no cause for alarm?’”

Rhea resumed her spot in the triangle, silencing any further injections with a sharp glance. In a serene voice that belied her expression, she went on, “The will of the Goddess, though enigmatic at times, must not throw us into disarray. It is the duty of divine vessels to trust Her guidance, and to project that trust to the faithful.”

She flicked one sleeve, as if physically closing the discussion. “Now, consider these signs as you would any others. What did you see?”

Seteth shifted his weight to one hip in a combative stance that Byleth knew well, but he ultimately yielded, clicking his tongue and going back to the drawings. “There is no clearer symbol of death. An end; departure. But I do not understand how it answers even one of our compound oracles - much less both, concurrently.”

“Indeed.” Rhea nodded to the map. “It does not seem to indicate a place, a quantity, or anything of that nature. And-” she turned to her other side in a faint rustle of fabric, “-what are your insights, my dear one?”

Byleth, still sour about Rhea’s justifications for tranquility, stood taller under the unexpected attention. “I agree with Seteth,” she said haltingly. “The answer didn’t fit our questions. But my contributions altered the sign both times, so I wonder if-?”

She cut herself off, wary of saying something that might be construed as heresy. Both Rhea and Seteth often reprimanded her nonstandard blood sign interpretations.

And so it was shocking, to say the least, when Seteth commented, “Byleth, this situation is unfamiliar to us all. If you have an idea, please - speak it.”

Byleth looked up from her musings and saw him - really _saw_ him - for the first time since their walk from the residential tower. His eyes were wide and seeking behind his veil, his posture withdrawn; his voice, as she thought on it, had carried an undercurrent of fragility in its request.

Beside him, even Rhea’s bastion of conviction drooped with uncertainty, and Byleth realized that the three of them were finally, _finally_ on even ground. Equals in confusion, if nothing else.

“Okay, well,” she said, tilting her head. The skull’s pinprick eyes stuck in her mind, static but ominous, like they could have started moving at any moment. Like they could really see into the room.

“I wonder if it was just for us? If it had nothing to do with our questions, I mean-” she watched her mentors carefully for signs of disapproval; under normal circumstances, it would be unthinkable to suggest that the Goddess hadn’t heeded an augury, “-and it was simply a message. A warning?”

Rhea flinched at that. “A warning,” she echoed, her gaze growing distant. “Like your vision of Zanado.”

“Your what?” Seteth asked, rounding on Byleth in disbelief; she could only pacify him with a raised hand and a shrug that implied a later explanation.

“Let us test this,” Rhea continued, rolling back her sleeves again. “Pray, perform individual oracles. Use the questions from our first attempt. If the Goddess is sending us a message, then someone will receive the skull.”

Byleth prepared her spike, pleasantly surprised that Rhea had accepted her idea so readily; though, perhaps, it was only in the absence of other suggestions. Whatever the case, she’d take it.

They turned their backs on each other to avoid accidental melding; Byleth ended up against a bookshelf, whispering her inquiry to centuries-old study materials.

The third sting lingered in her wrist long after the wound closed over, aching in her veins as her blood pooled on the floor. As much as she longed to hear a gasp or some other exclamation behind her - a signal that the skull was a warning for someone else - she knew that _hers_ was the question that had summoned it twice before.

And hers was the question that summoned it now. Somber and sharp-edged, the animalistic skull emerged from the floorboards, from the rapidly connecting lines of blood, like a face rising from a pool of water.

She could only stare down at it, meeting those hollow eyes wordlessly amid the background scratching of charcoal on parchment - Seteth and Rhea, recording their own answers. Eventually their soft soles crossed the floor, coming to rest over each of her shoulders.

“As I thought,” Seteth muttered, equal parts distressed and fascinated. “But what could it mean? If her life were in danger, we would be receiving _omens_ , not - this.”

“Not necessarily.” Rhea placed a light hand on Byleth’s arm. “Perhaps the Goddess is preparing us for a more complicated threat; one that an omen alone could not prevent.”

Byleth ducked away from the contact, crouching to sketch out the skull; she highly doubted it, but if there were any differences among the three, that could be a significant clue.

“But would the Goddess truly break Her patterns of millennia for a single life?” Seteth sounded frustrated, and for good reason, Byleth thought. She couldn’t imagine Sothis neglecting to answer several oracles in order to protect one human, either.

“For Her own vessel? A soul that could, herself, save thousands? I should think so,” Rhea asserted.

The two continued to disagree, but their debate faded out as Byleth focused on her task. Recording answers was a delicate part of augury; a practitioner must capture the overall shape of a sign, including precise positions for each component, before dissipation. It was only when she went back over its sunken cheeks with her charcoal, defined the ridge of its jaw, that she realized the significance of those actions.

The skull was still there, fanged and menacing, with its miniscule pupils trained on the ceiling. This was another anomaly, for sure; even the first two answers had vanished in a normal timeframe.

Byleth leaned in closer. Now that she could really inspect it, the blood in this sign looked darker than normal. Thicker. Its edges were raised with more surface tension than blood could usually provide, like it had already begun to coagulate.

Slowly, to a backdrop of muted, argumentative voices above her, she reached out to touch the nearest line. She kept it brief and cautious, merely a tap, but it sent a ripple across the entire design; and with that tiny bit of motion, the skull’s pinhole eyes seemed to shift - as if it had blinked and refocused - to Byleth.

She scrambled backward, thudding hard to the wooden floor in the process and hissing at the impact.

“Goodness, what is the matter?” Seteth asked in a high, startled octave. His and Rhea’s conversation had died completely, replaced with concerned, single-minded observation of their student.

Byleth accepted his help to stand, glancing back at the skull to point out its continued presence, but it was gone. A bit of the dark, thickened blood clung to her fingertip, scorching her in a disturbingly familiar way - like searing lamp oil - like corrosive acid gnawing into her flesh. _Like a drop of ink_ , she thought, and it dawned on her that this wasn’t the first time she’d thought that.

 _A drop of ink in clear water_.

Seteth and Rhea were still waiting for a response, their expressions growing more worried by the second, and Byleth gathered herself quickly.

“I tripped,” she said, smoothing her face into the Holy Maiden’s mask. “My drawing is complete. Have you come to any conclusions?”

As she’d hoped, the mention of their dispute reignited it in both participants.

“I believe this message represents a looming and abstract threat; evidently, we are not working swiftly enough to identify your attackers,” Rhea said, straightening Byleth’s lapels and veil.

“And _I_ believe,” Seteth followed up tersely, “that this message is more likely an emblem or sigil of the enemy’s organization. Regardless-” he gestured to the library with a sweep of his arm, “-Rhea is correct that we must double our efforts to scour the records.”

He paused, scrutinizing Byleth’s face. “Are you sure you are well?”

Byleth drew her left hand - the one that had touched the sign - farther into her wide sleeve. “Yes,” she lied, feeling the waxy blood burn off to nothing, consumed in some unseen fire. “I think three oracles was my limit today.”

Her mentors’ faces softened in sympathy; Byleth’s stomach roiled.

“Seteth and I can handle the archives,” Rhea said, leading Byleth to the library’s front doors. “Go and sleep; you may meet us there tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Seteth added as he stooped to retrieve the scribes’ sketches, “you are dismissed from our afternoon lesson. Rest well.”

All Byleth wanted to do was sprint back to her room and scribble all of this in a letter to Felix, but she forced a grateful smile to her lips.

“Thank you. I will,” she said, slipping outside before either of them could tack on anything else. She hastened across the grounds as fast as decorum would allow, keeping her face blank and her trepidation hidden.

Seteth and Rhea meant well, but they couldn’t know about the dark blood - about the connections Byleth had made. If they did, she’d never be allowed to leave the monastery; all the progress she’d made with them - the respect, the freedoms - would be gone. She’d be a prisoner again.

Phantom embers smoldered beneath her skin, ebbing over time but still pulsing from her one point of contact with the skull, a smothering coat just like Tomas’s blood; a plumbing corruption just like Cornelia’s touch.

\---

_Day 15 of the Guardian Moon, Royal year 2811_

_Felix,_

_Thank you for telling me about Dimitri. Hopefully it was easier to write it down than to speak it aloud - that was certainly the case for me._

_I can’t imagine what it must have been like, though. Did you have anyone to talk to? Anyone who understood your take on the situation?_

_Do you have anyone now?_

_It’s hard to open up, I know. Seteth and Rhea taught me from a young age to separate myself from people; I think you do that, too. I think it’s why we get along. But it doesn’t have to be like that forever._

_Even when you get home, I want to keep listening._

_It’s now the sixteenth day of the Guardian Moon. I was planning to ask you more about the mountains, but something extraordinary just happened. I’m afraid the tone of this letter is ruined. You’ll have to forgive me._

_At times like these, I really wish you knew more about the Church. Okay, a few things:_

_We can get more precise answers by performing oracles together - compound oracles._

_Seteth, Rhea, and I have been doing compound oracles to discover the identity and whereabouts of my attackers._

_The Goddess never grants the same answer more than once. Even if someone asked ten versions of the same question, they would receive ten different ways of viewing the outcome._

_All of that was setup for this: today, while performing compound oracles, I received the same answer twice, and then again during an individual oracle. It was a human skull, but with some animal features - oh, you know what, I’ll draw it at the end of this letter._

_That wasn’t the weirdest part. I touched the last one that appeared and it felt the same as when Tomas’s blood sprayed me in the attack. Not as bad, but my finger still burned like it was on fire._

_It reminded me of something else, too. I’ve never told you about this; it didn’t seem significant at the time. At Sylvain’s party, I met a royal physician. Cornelia Arnim. I can’t really explain it well, but the blood from today also felt like when she touched me._

_Those two things might not be connected - I don’t even know how they’d be connected - but I didn’t tell Seteth or Rhea that I touched the sign, or anything that happened after. They’d just overreact._

_Unfortunately, I can’t ask the Goddess about it, though, since She is only giving me one answer at the moment._

_For now, I’m going to start asking around about the physician. I don’t want to believe that someone in the royal court is tied to the attack, but it could certainly be one explanation for how Tomas got so far into Kingdom territory without detection._

_Do you have any other ideas?_

_Stay safe and well,_

_Byleth_

_P.S. That skull is creepy, right? I tried to do the eyes justice. They’re the worst part. Rhea thinks it symbolizes imminent peril; Seteth thinks it’s the attackers’ mark, or something. I don’t know what to think._

\---

When Seteth had released her from their afternoon lesson, he’d implied that she should spend that time resting in her room, but he hadn’t _explicitly_ ordered it.

And, Byleth reasoned, peering down the empty corridor outside her chambers, he and Rhea would probably be in the archives for a while; if they didn’t see her, they couldn’t be disappointed.

She kept that excuse in mind as she crept past the main stairs towards Flayn’s wing, harboring no doubts about her friend’s willingness to help secretly investigate a mystery.

“-Your Grace?” 

Byleth froze on the staircase landing. A few steps down, carrying a tray of tea and pastries, stood Mercedes.

“Lord Seteth said you were fatigued. Are you feeling better?” She climbed the rest of the way up, brow slightly creased.

Byleth sighed inwardly; of course he’d send someone to check on her. It wouldn’t be so easy to maneuver around the rules during the day.

“I was-” her eyes darted around the space, finally settling on her companion’s tray, “-going to get some tea.”

Mercedes hesitated, glancing down the hall toward Byleth’s room, then to the other end, in the direction she’d been traveling. 

“Unaccompanied?” She asked gently, rebalancing her tray on one hand and pressing the other to Byleth’s forehead with a thoughtful hum.

“You’re pale and your temperature is low.” Mercedes gave her charge a meaningful look. “Since you don’t feel like resting, why don’t you join Annie and me in the tearoom?”

Byleth took in the kind words and deliberate eye contact with a smile; if she must receive all of her directions through implication, she vastly preferred this method to Seteth’s.

“Lead the way,” she said simply, intuiting from the set of Mercedes’s shoulders that ‘covert research with Flayn’ wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

As usual, the tearoom’s other occupants scattered at the Holy Maiden’s approach. Byleth was growing infuriatingly accustomed to the sight, and to the agitated, empty feeling it left in her chest.

“Lady Byleth! What a nice surprise!” Annette hurried to add another chair to the table, catching her ankle on a corner and wobbling her way through its placement. 

“Ah, who put that- no, no,” she said, waving Mercedes off, “I’m fine. See?” She hid a grimace as she sat down, favoring one leg. “So, uh, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Mercedes watched her friend with a resigned but affectionate expression. After ensuring that Annette was stable, she deposited her tray and sat as well, motioning for Byleth to do the same.

“Her Grace is in need of blood fortification, so I invited her. I thought we could _all_ use the company.”

Byleth took the proffered spot, raising one eyebrow inquisitively at Mercedes’s emphasis.

“No, it’s-” Annette’s hands fluttered self-consciously, “-it’s nothing. My fiance is on assignment, so I’m a little lonely, is all.” She beamed across the table. “Mercie’s been cheering me up, though!”

Mercedes smiled indulgently as she poured out three cups of a light, herby tea. “You must be lonely, too, right?” She asked, setting one in front of Byleth. “With two of your instructors gone?”

Byleth, who’d momentarily wondered if Mercedes could hear her thoughts, relaxed again. “Ah. Yes. It’s been- quiet.”

“Oh, right,” Annette said, clapping like she’d just remembered it. “Ingrid and Felix teach you stuff, huh?”

“Do you-” Byleth stirred her tea as naturally as possible, hoping her voice held the same nonchalance, “-do you happen to know why Lady Ingrid’s unit was chosen?”

Annette plucked a generous number of sugar cubes from their bowl, nodding amiably. “They’re sent when something needs to get done quickly and quietly. Not sure why the captain didn’t pick Sylvain and me for information gathering, but-” she shrugged lightly, “-they wanted it under wraps, I guess?”

“You two aren’t very subtle, no,” Mercedes teased, giggling when Annette brandished the sugar tongs mock-threateningly.

Byleth frowned down into her tea. She’d hoped for an answer that might lift some of her suspicions about Rhea - specifically, her theory that Rhea had purposefully sent Felix away from Fhirdiad. But it seemed as though the royal knights were just as unclear on the reasoning for his deployment.

“They’ll be okay,” Annette reassured her, mistaking one sort of anxiety for another. “Hey, I know- Mercie, why don’t you tell us a story?”

Mercedes brightened at the suggestion, eagerly replacing her teacup on its saucer. “Oh, okay! I just heard two new ones in town the other day. Which would you like?”

She cleared her throat theatrically, adopting as sinister a tone as her kind, breathy voice could. “The woman in white who leads unfaithful husbands to their demise in the river - or the knight in black armor who steals maidens from their beds?”

“ _Mercie_!” Annette complained, taking a big gulp of her tea like she needed to cleanse her palate. “You know I didn’t mean a ghost story!”

Byleth hid a wide grin behind her hand, commenting slyly, “I don’t know, I sort of want to hear about the knight.”

“Not you, too,” Annette groaned, sinking down in her chair. She covered her face with both hands, eventually acquiescing in a small, muffled voice, “All right, I’m ready; tell us.”

Mercedes laughed, entertained and delighted, and Byleth couldn’t help but join in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annette and sylvain's information gathering technique, aka "good cop sexy cop"


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [endspire](https://endspire.tumblr.com/) has captured this chapter's [tsundere mountain struggles](https://endspire.tumblr.com/post/626204408896700416/daughter-of-divinity-ch-28-no-chance-no-way-i) _absolutely perfectly_
> 
> carpal tunnel's giving me trouble this week, so no new chapter until the ~~21st~~ 28th?? 
> 
> (edit 8/22):  
> pros of taking a week off: wrist feels better! (nice!)  
> cons of taking a week off: brain engine revs up again real slow (not nice)

“The ‘Death Knight?’” Felix asked dryly, thumbing through a stack of recent reports. “Really?”

Jeralt sighed - a deep, timeworn sound, like some of his spirit was leaking out with it - and handed two similarly thick packets to Ingrid and Ashe. “You know how it goes. Street nicknames spread like wildfire, and we had to call this guy _something_.”

The four of them sat in a stark white command tent on the edge of Charon territory, scattered informally over a dusty rug. Frigid mountain winds whistled through the gaps in the canvas walls, biting through their layers, barely held at bay by a central warming brazier.

Jeralt leaned back in his field chair, tapping a map of the Oghma range with one calloused finger. 

“Anyway, we’ve been tracking him since Rowe. Far as I can tell, he crossed the border there - straight through the mountains, if you can believe it. Or under them.” He waved his other hand in a vaguely circular motion to illustrate the ridiculousness of that suggestion. “Been heading northeast ever since.”

Ashe’s eyes, normally so friendly and open, were fixed worriedly on a particular page. His hesitant voice echoed Felix’s thoughts exactly, “No confirmed casualties?”

This mysterious kidnapper had taken his first victim over a moon ago; either he was traveling with an increasingly large number of hostages, or he was disposing of them as he went.

“Yeah,” Jeralt said, pronouncing the word with an air of finality that made Ingrid’s shoulders droop. “Weeks of searching and - nothing. No sightings of the missing women, but no body trail, either.”

“That’s-” Ingrid cut herself off, staring hard at the ground and scuffing her boot across the rug. Felix knew that aggravated face; she was going to say ‘impossible.’

 _Impossible_ , she’d said during their assignment briefing, when Seteth explained the way Bel’s attackers had vanished without a trace.

 _Impossible_ , she’d blurted after the latest declaration - one in a long string of miners and metallurgists who’d asserted the same - that the dark, heavy metal Tomas had left behind didn’t come from anywhere in Fodlan.

Maybe she was finally acclimating to a different definition of the word.

“Have you seen him yourself?” Felix asked, scanning page after page of baseless rumors. “Or is this nonsense all you’ve got?”

Ashe, for all their years fighting together, still went stiff whenever Felix spoke so brusquely to a superior. “Hey - eyewitness accounts can still be valuable,” he said, flipping to an early entry. “Look; this person identified the kidnapper’s black armor and clips in his horse’s ears.”

“Clips,” Ingrid mused. “An Imperial courser?”

Felix crossed his legs, pointing to a different part of the report. “That same farmer also said the guy was ten feet tall and had glowing eyes.”

“You’ve got a point, Gaspard.” Jeralt dragged tired eyes over his knights. “Some of the testimony was useful. But-” he nodded shallowly to Felix, then Ingrid, “-it _was_ mostly contradictory. And nothing we couldn’t figure out from his tracks and point of crossing, either.”

“Of course, the emperor denies any knowledge of such an individual-” he looked up at the ceiling of his tent, stretching his shoulders and frowning like the action pained him, “-and suggests that he might be a deserter from a border fort.”

“A ‘rogue operative,’” Felix guessed flatly, and his captain confirmed it with an ironic smile.

“Luckily, the emperor grants us full authority to punish this man, should we catch him.” Jeralt tossed his own packet aside, a small vent for his obvious frustration.

Felix scoffed, “Typical.”

The Empire treated all such incursions similarly; if the existence of a spy was insinuated, Enbarr knew nothing. If one was apprehended, well - they must have been a lone dissident, certainly not endorsed by any official powers.

“Is he still in Charon?” Ashe asked, incensed, gripping the arms of his chair like he was ready to jump up and assist in the search himself.

Jeralt glanced to the northeast, narrowing his eyes as if seeing straight through the tent. “Unlikely. If he continues on as he has, he’ll skirt Galatea and hit some of the plains villages.”

“He’d be smart to do that,” Ingrid said grimly, “since my family doesn’t have the manpower to adequately patrol our inner border.”

“And _I_ don’t have the manpower to station knights in every town from here to Blaiddyd.” Jeralt sighed heavily again. “We move out in the morning - try to follow signs to his next stop. Get ahead of him if we’re lucky.”

He seemed to return to the present, recalling his mind’s eye from the vast distances it had traveled. “What about you three? Got another mine manager to interrogate?”

He’d probably meant it as a joke, but it fell flat to a room so full of sleep deprivation. Ingrid ran a hand through her hair, managing a laugh that tapered off into a groan.

“Four more stops from here to the coast, yes,” Ashe said, mustering his usual optimism. “Then we’ll report back to Fhirdiad.”

“Nothing.” Felix, unable to contain his displeasure, punctuated it with a flick of his ankle. “We’ll report _nothing_ back to Fhirdiad.”

Ashe’s smile faltered. “‘Nothing’ is still ‘something,’ Felix,” he insisted weakly. 

“Yeah,” Ingrid added, spouting more of that false hope. “Eliminating Faerghus as a source of the metal wouldn’t be a bad thing. Then we could expand our search.”

They’d been through this argument so many times that even the spectre of it left a sour taste on Felix’s tongue. Instead of answering, he turned back to Jeralt, sympathizing internally with the troubled expression he found there.

Not only had their unit wasted weeks on a near-pointless task, there was another threat, much more suited to their specialty, that they could’ve been working on this whole time.

The other concern - one that nobody had spoken aloud, yet Felix saw it in the deep worry lines around Jeralt’s eyes; felt it clench periodically around his own heart - was, of course, Bel’s safety. He’d been nearly a moon out of the capital with almost nothing to show for this arm of the investigation.

Jeralt shook his head like he was banishing similarly dark thoughts. “Well, be careful going through Galatea. We don’t know if or when the kidnapper might change his patterns; there’s every possibility you could meet him on the road.”

“I’d welcome the novelty,” Felix interjected, earning a chuckle from his captain. 

Some distance away, the dinner bell clanged out over the camp, followed shortly by the excited voices and heavy footfalls of knights passing by the tent.

“I’ve kept you long enough. Grab some food before it gets cold,” Jeralt said, heading stiffly for his desk. “I bet it’s been a while.”

It _had_ been a while; the last two towns they’d visited couldn’t spare any food, even for coin, so they’d been on dry rations for over a week. Felix didn’t much care for the quality or consistency of his meals as long as they sustained him well, but he could see Ingrid and Ashe practically salivating out of the corner of his eye. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Ingrid said, saluting and springing out of her chair with Ashe hot on her heels. She paused at the entrance and looked back to Felix. “Oh, could you get the-”

“Mail, yeah, I’m on it,” Felix said, waving them off with a smirk. “Go on, you gluttons.”

\---

This border village, like many others in the foothills, had neither a tavern nor an inn. Jeralt and his knights had ended up in a veritable tent-city outside it, nearly half again as large and twice as boisterous.

Felix, Ingrid, and Ashe were set up a short distance from its southern edge, connected to the main camp by a hastily poured gravel path. Felix crunched along it now, holding a customary two-letter bundle to his chest. 

The sky, a twilight purple-orange when they’d entered the command tent, had darkened fully to ink; lantern light from the town’s humble Church of Seiros lit his way, spilling out across the snow to either side of the camp roads. He spared it a dubious glance in passing.

Since the other two weren’t back yet, he struck up the fire and dropped into another creaky field chair with his letter. Usually he’d open it in the privacy of his tent, but Jeralt’s news about the Death Knight - Felix scoffed again at the name - had left him too restless for walls, even cloth ones.

He worked the plain white envelope open with the tip of a dagger, careful to preserve the delicate ‘F.F.’ scripted on its center. That familiar smell of vanilla and smoke rose out of it, like the inside of a censer; Bel’s fragrance. 

Keeping the gravel path well within his periphery, he propped his chin up on a closed fist and started reading. It wasn’t long before his surroundings faded out entirely, though, supplanted by the contents of the letter; the Church terminology went over his head a bit, but the part about the blood definitely stuck. 

_Cornelia Arnim_. He’d seen her buzzing around Rufus, and Lambert before him. Court physician. Trusted aide to the crown, responsible for quelling the outbreak of a mysterious disease in Fhirdiad two decades ago.

What link could she possibly have to Tomas?

He reached the end of the letter, looking over Bel’s drawing of her repeat oracle answer - whose frequency was, apparently, strange and baffling in itself. It made perfect sense to him; if someone wasn’t heeding an important message, he’d just send it again.

The skull _was_ unsettling, though. Its empty eyes - no, not empty, he realized, bringing the paper closer - and inhuman features would shock anyone, much less a person so used to communicating in symbol and metaphor.

Gravel crunched in the distance. Felix managed to fold the letter and slip it inside his jacket before Ingrid sat down beside him, shivering and holding out a bowl of stew.

“You’re lucky,” she said, teeth chattering as she scooted closer to the fire. “They were almost down to bread rolls.”

He swiped the bowl from her hands and replaced it with the other letter in the bundle, looking pointedly away as she tore it open. They had an unspoken deal about the letters: whomever retrieved them distributed the other without question or comment, and that was that. 

Felix was sure that Ingrid had puzzled out who ‘B.E.’ was pretty early, and there was no mistaking Sylvain’s overly flowery handwriting on the other envelope - not to mention the blatantly Gautier messenger who did all the deliveries and pick-ups - but they didn’t talk about it. Simple. Easy.

He drank down his soup methodically, eager to continue that trend of non-interference. It was blander than the fare he’d get in Fhirdiad, but warm, and the sparse chunks of meat and potato did much to revitalize his spirit.

“Thanks,” he said, setting aside the bowl and grabbing his sword oil. Weapon maintenance always helped him think, and after Bel’s letter, he _really_ needed to think. “Where’s Ashe?”

Ingrid looked up, a half-eaten bread roll hanging from the corner of her mouth. “Firewood duty- oh, good idea,” she murmured, eyeing the oil and pocketing her letter. She set up her lance so that its blade was within reach, but she did so mechanically, her eyes hazy and distant.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d received a complicated message, Felix thought, and passed the little vial without complaint. They fell into the habitual movements of oiling, a routine that had been drilled into them both since childhood.

He considered Bel’s question between passes of his rag. If Cornelia Arnim _was_ somehow tied to Tomas and his group, then there could be other compromised elements of the royal court, as well - and, in that case, it wouldn’t be safe for Bel to go around asking about them.

Felix couldn’t help in that arena, either, even if he were home. The members of the court, who they served, what petty intrigues currently occupied them - he’d never had the patience for any of that, and thus had no meaningful connections to it.

He’d have to send her to Dimitri.

The thought stopped his hand halfway up his blade. He fought valiantly against it, but logically - infuriatingly - it was the best option. Dimitri knew those painted faces, their inner workings; he’d be able to help her navigate any inquiries.

Felix exhaled slowly, setting aside his sword and making for his tent like a man headed for the chopping block, reasoning that he might as well write all of that out before he changed his mind.

“-Felix,” Ingrid called in a small voice, and he turned around; she’d also paused in her task, elbows rested on her knees, and her eyes were wide and plaintive as a lost child’s.

 _Goddess above_ , he thought, exasperated, and sat back down.

“What?” He demanded, mirroring her posture. It had to be something to do with her letter; she’d been nothing but hungry and road-tired before reading it.

Ingrid stared for almost a full minute, searching his face. Her hesitation made him lean in more attentively, as she wasn’t usually one to restrain herself in anything - least of all vocally. 

He could count on one hand the number of times Ingrid had held back an opinion, and it usually involved her father; but if this were just another marriage arrangement from Count Galatea, it would already be a smoking pile of ash.

Eventually, after he’d fed several sticks from their dwindling pile into the fire, Ingrid took a deep breath and slapped her thighs with both hands.

“Sylvain kissed me at Midwinter,” she confessed, the corners of her mouth twitching like she didn’t quite believe it herself.

Felix could relate. He felt rooted to his chair, wired into his current position, unable to break free. His brain lagged several seconds behind, attempting to reconcile his previous train of thought with this one.

“Sylvain-” he repeated dully, focused on a point over her shoulder, computing the words as they came out, “- _kissed_ you.”

“Yeah, it was- well-” Ingrid dragged her hands down her face. “He sort of- asked me first?”

She glanced over briefly, just a timid flick of her eyes. “And I sort of- agreed?”

Felix made a sound somewhere between pain and indignation. “And you thought to bring this to _me_? Why?” 

He understood that options were limited in their current situation, but Ashe was vastly more experienced with such things - and, more importantly, willing to discuss them in the first place.

“I don’t know,” Ingrid hedged, rolling her shoulders, “you’ve got that whole thing with Lady Byleth-”

Before Felix could fully ramp up his many and forceful denials, she lowered her voice and went on, “-and Ashe doesn’t really get it, you know? Why pursuing Sylvain would be-” she sighed, “-complicated.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. The disparate pieces - her uncertainty, her distraction, her aura of shame - clicked together into an unpleasant picture.

“Oh,” he said. “So this is about Glenn.”

She gave him a helpless, wobbly smile, as if to say, _so many things are._

“Ingrid, you don’t need my permission to court Sylvain.” Felix spat the words onto the snow between them, overly harsh despite his best efforts; he always was, when it came to Glenn. “And you couldn’t get _his_ , even if it mattered - and it doesn’t.”

Her brow furrowed to irritation, fists clenching in her lap. “I know that.”

“Do you?” He gestured to the low, repentant posture she’d taken beside him. “Because from here it looks like you want me to talk you out of something.”

Ingrid looked down at herself, grunted, and promptly straightened her back. 

“I don’t. I _don’t_ ,” she protested more emphatically to his doubtful stare. “Just- listen. Okay?”

Felix scowled into the fire, settling back into his chair. He could tolerate this for a few minutes at least; it wasn’t like there was much else to do around here.

“Thank you,” Ingrid breathed, taking his continued presence for what it was: acquiescence. She readjusted, too, angling herself more comfortably toward their heat source.

“It was at the very end of the night, when I was leaving our carriage,” she said, picking at the hem of her long, padded sleeve. “He just- asked. Out of nowhere. And I-” she frowned down at her fingers, “-I don’t know what I was thinking. I said ‘yes,’ and he…”

She threw another stick into the fire, letting its summary consumption act as the description she’d withheld. “It’s been different since then. There’s this- pressure. I was - Goddess, it’s so stupid, but I was relieved when we left Fhirdiad. I didn’t have to feel so _strange_ with him anymore.”

Felix thought of a particular, deeply-buried box, and privately admitted to a comparable predicament.

“But- _why_ would he? After all this time, and he knows- everything-” Ingrid raised her hands as if trying to physically grapple an imaginary Sylvain.

“Well,” Felix said, drawing on his own limited knowledge, “maybe he’s wanted to for a while.”

She ceased her invisible assault, letting her arms fall limply back onto her knees. “What am I supposed to do with that? He wants to kiss everything with a heartbeat.”

(The joke, while delivered in a derogatory manner, left Felix oddly comforted.)

“Did you hate it, then?” He asked, and then, after she gave a reluctant shake of her head in response, “Did you like it?”

Ingrid met his eyes, rigid like she might bolt at any second, and nodded.

“-Then what’s the problem?”

Her pleading expression hardened to stone. “Felix-”

“What?” He regarded her steadily, tolerance bleeding into agitation. “I know what you’ve been doing, Ingrid. Glenn is _dead_ . You’re saving yourself for a ghost. Whatever he would have thought about you and Sylvain - we’ll never know. We _can’t_ ever know.”

He clasped his hands to keep them still and said more quietly, “And I can’t give you that blessing in his place. All right? So make your own damn decision.”

Ingrid let out a long breath, closing her eyes and letting her shoulders relax somewhat. “Okay, yes, you’re right,” she said, dipping her head apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I just-” her voice turned strained and conspiratorial, “-how do I know if I love him?”

Felix reared back, bloodless and aghast, and spluttered, “How do you expect _me_ to answer that?”

“I don’t know!” She threw up her arms in annoyance. “Aren’t you in love with Lady Byleth?”

The accusation brought three knee-jerk responses out of him in quick succession, each more aggressive than the last, “I don’t know - _no_ \- why do you want to know?”

Something sparked in Ingrid’s eyes - recognition, maybe, of a soul just as lost as hers - but before she could say anything else, Ashe wandered into camp with an armload of stripped branches.

“Hey, I heard shouting. Is everything okay?” He asked, depositing the wood and joining them by the fire.

Felix raised his chin, silently daring Ingrid to continue the conversation - and she returned the gesture impetuously - but then both of their faces cleared at once, like wiped slates, and they whipped to Ashe in perfect sync.

He flinched away from their combined intensity. “Uh- what?”

“You’re in love with Annette, right?” Felix asked, deathly serious.

Ashe chuckled nervously. “I sure hope so; we’ll be married this summer."

His attempt at humor bounced ineffectively off his friends’ severity, lifting his voice into an uncertain key. “-Why?”

“How did you know?” Ingrid probed, motioning for him to sit.

At the same time, Felix picked up their third field chair and replaced it between himself and Ingrid, forming a three-sided cage of sorts, and added, “What were the signs?”

Ashe eyed the chair warily, but sat nonetheless. “Uh, well,” he said, glancing between Felix and Ingrid in anxious intervals like he still couldn’t puzzle out their behavior, “you remember when she was teaching me tactical mathematics, right?”

“Oh, yes, back when we were squires,” Ingrid said, her grave face cracking momentarily with nostalgia.

Felix remembered it vividly. Ashe was born a commoner, adopted by Lord Gaspard as a young teenager. When he’d joined the rest of the noble squires in Fhirdiad, his lack of both combat and educational foundations was obvious. Everyone had chipped in at once to help; Felix himself - though grudgingly, at the time - had spent many an evening drilling him in the basics of the sword and bow.

“It started then. We had so much in common - goals, hobbies, you name it - that all I wanted to do was be with her. Learn more about her- I guess I don’t know how to explain it well,” Ashe said with a self-deprecating laugh.

He thought for a moment, then tried again, “When someone takes up that much of your heart, you just know it. You’re always thinking about them. Considering their feelings and point of view-”

Ingrid’s hands, plastered to the arms of her chair, tightened around the flimsy wood.

Ashe snapped his fingers like he’d landed on the right words. “Ah- planning for them to remain at your side.”

This time, Felix was the one to break; his composure, so strong during most of the speech, crumbled at the finale.

“Why, though?” Ashe inquired, all innocence and fond recollection. “Are you two courting someone?”

“No,” Felix and Ingrid said in unison, shooting each other a look of pure hubris and regret; the look of two knowledge-seekers who’d glimpsed beyond the veil.

Ingrid stood first, pushing herself up with a speed she usually reserved for battle. “I have to, uh,” she muttered, already stumbling away toward the treeline, and threw a barely distinguishable, “-firewood,” over her shoulder.

“But I already got it!” Ashe called after her, his voice tapering off when she showed no sign of returning. “Where is she- Felix!”

Ten or so paces down the gravel path, Felix waved half-heartedly back at Ashe as a farewell, offering nothing further.

\---

Jeralt’s camp was still noisy at this hour, saturated with the booming laughter of knights who either didn’t mind riding out in the morning with a pounding headache, or hadn’t yet foreseen the consequences of their carousing.

Felix avoided those areas of firelight, sticking mostly to the outskirts of the camp while he walked. The cold wind sliced straight through his thick layers, but he welcomed it - welcomed any sensation but the clinging implications of Ashe’s words.

He’d already put that pesky box away; he’d already decided that his role in Bel’s life was as a protector, a guardian. A shield. He had no time for indecision, especially with so many dangerous factors still unidentified.

 _Why can’t it be both?_ Wondered a tiny voice in his head, freezing his feet to the ground. 

The wind whistled by, flapping the canvas walls of several tents just off the path.

 _Why_ can’t _it be both?_

Marquis Vestra had made romance and duty out to be mutually exclusive opposites - insinuated that to indulge in the former would weaken the latter.

But, Felix pondered, breath misting in the air as he looked out over the snowy plain beyond the camp, what did that guy know? He didn’t even carry a blade.

“Fraldarius?” Came Jeralt’s voice, raspy from the cold, up the path behind Felix. He stopped to take in the same darkened view. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Felix made a low, noncommittal noise, keeping his gaze guiltily averted. _I was thinking about courting your daughter._

Jeralt appraised his knight, deceptively casual. “If you’re up anyway, let me get your eyes on something.”

 _Something_ in the captain’s case was almost always _strategy_. Felix perked up, trailing Jeralt back to the command tent, glad for a distraction. It was blissfully warm inside, leaching the numbness from his extremities.

“-Here,” Jeralt said, laying out a map of southern Faerghus on his desk. It was littered with red dots around the base of the Oghmas, connected with a broken line and trending loosely from west to east.

“Kidnapping incidents,” Felix realized aloud, tracing the path lightly with a finger. “What about them?”

Jeralt indicated a specific pass through the mountains at the border between Charon and Galatea. “We were sure he was going to try to cross into Leicester here,” he said in a suspiciously instructor-type way; one that expected an insightful answer.

Felix glared in response but bent over the map anyway, scrutinizing the ‘Death Knight’s’ path up to that point. “Makes sense. He’d hit over a dozen villages and the knights were getting closer.” He clicked his tongue. “-So why didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Jeralt said dourly. “That’s the issue. Look-”

He indicated the last dot - their current position, “-he’s been pretty lucky so far, slinking through poor and sparsely populated counties like Gaspard and Charon, but if he keeps going like he is, he’ll hit Fraldarius in about a week. That’s the end of the line.”

Felix agreed with a hum; he didn’t think it was overly boastful to acknowledge that the military seat of the Kingdom could swiftly encircle a single criminal. However-

“He’d have the same problem in Blaiddyd,” he mused, considering the eastern border as a whole. If the kidnapper’s aim were simple chaos, why not take an easy out through Charon Pass before reaching the well-armed northern territories?

“He has an end goal,” Felix concluded, drawing a midline to the northeast of their camp; it cut clean through the center of Fhirdiad.

Jeralt nodded curtly. “I think so, too. None of my senior knights think he’ll strike in the capital, since he’s stuck to small towns so far, but I’m not so sure. Everything about this guy is- off.”

He glanced to the stack of reports, adding ruefully, “And we don’t even know what he _looks_ like.”

Felix snorted. “Sure you do. Ten feet tall, glowing red eyes.”

Jeralt attempted a laugh, but it came out strained. “Yeah, and no skin on his head. I'll draw up the wanted posters right now.”

The mirth drained out of Felix instantly, leaving him cold and hollow. “No skin?”

Jeralt stared for a few seconds, then started like he’d remembered something. “Oh, right, I left those out of the intro packets. ‘Too ridiculous to consider,’” he recited; one of the many labels the knights used for witness accounts.

“It was another commonality in the reports - they say he’s a normal man from the neck down, but everything above is just bone and fire.” Jeralt modulated his voice to sound appropriately superstitious, then rolled his eyes. “Obviously it’s just a helm or something- what?”

Dread powered Felix’s fingers as he pulled Bel’s letter from his coat, unfolding it and holding her oracle sketch up as steadily as he could.

“-Does it look like _this_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeralt, squinting at the letter: why is this bel's handwriting
> 
> (i know, it's another cliffhanger so soon! trust me tho!)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
>  *****  
>  body horror cw  
> *****  
> _  
> 
> 
> thank you to ElasmobranchMel from the felileth server for beta-ing this chapter!! you really saved me!
> 
> (sorry about last week. i don't know what happened?)

Inside the main temple, to the left and right of the atrium, were two mirrored corridors. Each one had four small confessional rooms on their outward-facing sides, uniformly spaced for the sake of privacy.

Byleth had commandeered one such room for her Saturday meeting with Sylvain and Dimitri, finding the chambers’ soundproofing and discreet locations perfectly suited to her purposes. She pushed open its door; beside her, Flayn carried a tea tray.

“- Truly, I do not understand you, Byleth,” Flayn muttered, ducking inside and closing them in. “With one breath you urge me to reconcile with Father, and with the next, you tell me you have invited a _worldly scholar_ onto monastery grounds!”

Byleth laughed, surveying the windowless chamber; its walls were covered in paneling that depicted Seiros and the Four Saints distributing the Goddess’s teachings to the early people of Fodlan - beautiful, to be sure, but also functional. Even if she were to stand next to a panel and shout, anyone outside wouldn’t be able to identify her words. She and Flayn had tested it many times as children.

“I’ve received permission to explore ‘novel avenues’ of investigation,” Byleth said, sitting at a low central table - the only piece of furnishing, along with its flanking benches, in the room. “If it bothers you, you can blame Rhea’s vaguely-worded directions.”

“It does not bother _me_.” Flayn set about arranging the tea set, slapping Byleth’s hands away when she tried to help.

“I am simply concerned for the poor nuns who will witness the unfaithful striding brazenly through our temple,” Flayn went on. Her voice was stern but her expression delighted, as it always was when she was ahead of a piece of gossip. “A physician, you said?”

“A royal physician. Highly respected in the Regent’s court.” Byleth added that last part mostly for herself - it was good practice for Seteth’s inevitable grilling. She prompted hopefully, “So, I didn’t hear a refusal - does that mean you agree?”

Flayn pursed her lips and threw down the tea napkins with more force than necessary. “You will not give up on this, will you?”

Without answering, Byleth crossed her arms on the table and donned her best, most serious Holy Maiden face. She’d already explained the rationale behind mutual apology, and knew that Flayn was wise enough to understand it - this resistance was, in all likelihood, pure stubbornness.

Flayn endured the silent treatment for almost an entire minute, eyes flicking from Byleth’s squared shoulders to her grave expression and back again, before she sighed heavily and sat down on the bench.

“All right, I will meet with you and Father,” she relented, scowling at Byleth’s victorious smile and tacking on, “but _only_ if he admits that his wrongdoing was greater than mine.”

“Deal,” Byleth said, figuring that would be easy enough; it was true, after all.

“- And,” Flayn continued airily, “when we see him, I would like you to explain why you have been so strange since Midwinter. I am quite tired of being excluded.”

Byleth hesitated. There was no easy way to explain her new knowledge and mounting suspicions about Rhea; that was why she’d been putting it off for so long, she supposed, digesting that truth uncomfortably.

“Okay,” she said, swallowing hard. “I can do that. Anything else?”

Flayn’s eyes widened like she hadn’t expected such an easy acceptance. “Oh, um -” she cocked her head, concentrating hard on possible further demands, “- ah! Allow me to sit in on this appointment. The prince will be here, will he not?”

Byleth drummed her fingers on the table in amused disbelief. “Anything else that’s legal?”

The somewhat crestfallen but mostly coy look on Flayn’s face suggested that perhaps she’d started at a negotiative high point on purpose. “Well - I _did_ hear that Lady Martritz and Ser Dominic will be joining you in the temple gardens tomorrow afternoon...”

Byleth’s hands stilled, flattening to the tabletop. “Uh-huh,” she said dryly. “And you want to - what? Sit out in plain view of the administrative tower?”

“If I wear my veil the entire time,” Flayn argued, speaking quickly like she’d been scripting it for a while, “and we are in a public, open area of the monastery - and if you are with me, of course - then am I truly breaking any rules?”

Veiled, accompanied, and observed: the three main tenets of vessel behavior, especially for the un-Inducted. Byleth nodded slowly, figuring that the plan certainly abided by their literal meanings, if not their intended ones.

“Sure, why not,” she said, smiling fondly at Flayn’s excited clapping. “Seteth might lecture us after, but we’re going to apologize anyway, right?”

“Right!” Flayn agreed, hopping up and heading directly for the door. “Oh, thank you. I am most eager to acquaint myself with a royal knight!”

Very few people at Garreg Mach could say no to Flayn. Seteth would understand that, Byleth thought. Surely he would. She repeated that to herself several more times, listening for the sounds of her friend’s exit - but, while the paneled door swung open as expected, there was no subsequent sound of its closing.

Byleth looked up, annoyed, and found Flayn frozen in the doorway; across the threshold, chipper and clutching a tightly-wrapped bundle of white cloth, stood Dimitri.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” came his practiced greeting, issued from a flawless princely mask. It only faltered when he saw Byleth at the table - saw that the woman in front of him was a _different_ green-haired, green-eyed divine vessel. His good eye instantly shot up to the ceiling.

“Oh! Ah - um - Lady Flayn, what a pleasant surpr-”

Flayn slammed the door shut, turning and pressing her back to it, wearing a look of sheer mortification. The soundproof paneling performed its job admirably; as soon as the latch clicked, Dimitri’s awkward stammering cut out.

“Why is he here already!?” she hissed, glaring as if Byleth had arranged it personally. “I am certain that he saw me just now!”

Byleth gasped in mock horror, switching to a placating laugh when her friend stomped a foot in frustration. “It’s okay! It was just an accident. The rules account for accidents.”

Seeing that her words had a calming effect, Byleth went on teasingly, “But you’d better greet him properly after that bit of rudeness, I think.”

Flayn’s face, partway recovered from its initial embarrassment, heated up once more. “Goodness, you are right-”

She flipped down her veil and opened the door with as much haste as she’d closed it, revealing a bewildered, but still smiling, Dimitri. 

“Good morning, Your Highness!” she blurted, moving to the side of the doorway. “I hope you will excuse my behavior just now. Please, come in.”

Dimitri obeyed, entering with a stilted half-shuffle, but as soon as he opened his mouth - presumably to offer his own apologies, Byleth theorized - Flayn squeezed around him and scampered off down the corridor.

“I - oh, my - she’s quite fast,” he commented, throwing several backward glances over his shoulder as he moved to join Byleth at the table. “I couldn’t even beg pardon for startling her - again.”

Byleth made room for him, both gratified and disappointed that her theory was correct. “I guarantee that Lady Flayn takes no offense,” she said, rolling her eyes. At this very moment, Flayn was probably holed up in the atrium, giggling dreamily.

“What brings you here so early?”

Dimitri sat and deposited his cargo, his mouth twisted into something like chagrin. “Well, I invited Lady Arnim, just as you asked, but I was unaware that she and Sylvain -” he cleared his throat, “- that they would be, ah -”

“Flirting?” Byleth guessed.

He nodded, relief smoothing out the lines in his forehead. “So you understand why I had to - why I chose to ride ahead.”

“I do, yes,” she said flatly, recalling a similar event from Sylvain’s party. “In any case, I appreciate you heeding my request, Your Highness.”

“Certainly. It was no trouble, and Lady Arnim was happy to oblige.” Dimitri folded his hands on the table, settling in for the meeting, but his contented smile turned quizzical when he noted its contents.

“- Tea service for an informal autopsy?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Byleth grimaced and pushed the tea tray farther away. “Lady Flayn insisted that we couldn’t receive royalty without it; obviously, she isn’t aware of what we’re doing here - never mind,” Byleth said, dismissing the thought with a hand-wave and gesturing instead to the white-cloth bundle. “Is that it?”

Dimitri nodded, flipping it over to reveal its bindings, but he paused before untying them. “It is, but - are you sure about this, Your Grace? Lady Arnim could just as easily deliver her findings to us via letter.”

“I am perfectly capable of viewing the remains of the dead, Your Highness,” Byleth said defensively.

“Oh, no, I didn’t intend to question your fortitude -” he shook his head vehemently, getting to work on the bundle’s ties in repentance, “- I only meant that this is the man who attacked you; who wished you harm. Will it not trouble you?”

The thought had certainly occurred to her, but investigating her suspicions was more important. All other pretense - the autopsy, its premise, Dimitri’s and Sylvain’s attendance - was simply that: an acceptable vector for questioning Cornelia.

She shifted on the bench, deliberating on how much to tell him, and eventually settled for a half-truth, “I’m not the first divine vessel to be targeted, nor will I be the last. It troubles me, yes, but I’m protected.”

Dimitri picked at the knots, smiling warmly at her explanation. “And I am honored that you trust us to protect you; we _will_ discover who did this.”

Byleth returned the expression stiffly, declining to correct him. Ever since Midwinter, she’d taken to wearing Felix’s dagger every day, safely concealed beneath her robe. Its weight was a comfortable reminder that she was not - as so many seemed to think - helpless in an emergency.

“There,” Dimitri said with a triumphant hum, pulling free the last of the knots.

Several layers of waxed white linen fell to the sides, folding over like petals; nestled inside, packed in preservative salts, laid Tomas’s severed forearm.

It was faced palm-up, thin fingers - which had held the twisted augur spike, long removed, at the moment of separation - curled inward like a dead spider’s legs, bent and rigid. Its pale, bloodless skin had tightened and wrinkled in the desiccation process, emphasizing a network of raised veins beneath.

Byleth had heard of bodies being prepared like this, but never seen an example up close. The Church, generally, had few dealings with the burial process; in its eyes, a person’s essence departed with their final breath, and everything after was simply caretaking for their mortal vessel. A job for laymen.

Now, seeing this dried out husk, robbed of all moisture and vitality, she could scarcely fathom why someone would want to do this to a loved one’s earthly remains - even if they were a criminal. 

“I didn’t get a chance to examine it after the attack. Everything was so hectic,” Dimitri said quietly, rotating the cloth base to view the arm from all angles. “Thank goodness the Fhirdiad Academy could spare the materials to preserve it.”

He moved and spoke somberly, respectfully, but without delay, like he was used to dealing with things like this. Given his title and position, Byleth thought, he probably was - and by that logic, she should grow accustomed to it, too.

With that in mind, she swallowed her discomfort and tried to think of the arm like a manuscript in the archive: something harmless and delicate to be scoured for knowledge, and nothing more.

Dimitri had positioned the arm so that its severed end - an ovular window, just under the elbow joint, into white bone and shrivelled tissue - faced them.

“A clean cut,” he mused, indicating its uniform edges like a professor at lecture. “As expected of Felix. Ah -” he turned to face Byleth, smiling nostalgically, “- you’ve never been to battle with us, but this precision is basically his signature.”

His wistful tone and distant gaze took her back to Midwinter, to a moonlit secret garden and a similar expression, and she seized the opportunity to sate another long-held curiosity. “Your Highness, forgive my probing, but - you and Lord Felix were once close, weren’t you?”

The light in his eye dimmed somewhat. “Once,” he confirmed quietly. “Yes, that’s correct. Ingrid, Felix, Sylvain, and I were practically raised like siblings. We were always together. Always.”

“Oh, but -” he seemed to remember himself, straightening his spine to a more formal degree, “- it’s not exactly an amiable subject for discussion.”

Byleth tilted her head and asked wryly, “Is any subject ‘amiable’ in this setting?”

The both stared down at the arm - its abrupt end; its gnarled, grasping fingers - and Dimitri laughed weakly. 

“That’s - you’re quite right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Suffice it to say that the Tragedy took more than lives from us. It can be difficult to interact now, on certain grounds.” 

He spoke in a slow, reserved manner, like he was picking his words with the utmost care. Something about it didn’t add up, though; Felix’s letter had made it seem like their problems were more complex - more personal.

Frowning, she pressed on, “Lord Sylvain is often in your presence, and comfortably - and Lady Ingrid is often in his - but I never see you and Lord Felix together.” Thinking back on Founding Day and Midwinter, she amended, “ _Willingly_ together.”

Dimitri winced away, his face tight with a sort of weary, resigned fear - as if this was the exact question he’d been trying to avoid. He clasped his hands on the tabletop, sighing heavily, but any explanation he might have given was interrupted by a commotion in the hall. 

Out of habit, moving purely by muscle memory, Byleth pulled up her hood and veil.

“- Morning!” Sylvain greeted them brightly, popping in through the doorway like her words had summoned him. “Sorry we’re late, I got caught up with - oh, merciful Goddess, _what is that_?”

He approached them in horrified fascination, so distracted by Tomas’s arm that he bumped into the table twice before successfully sitting down on the opposite bench. 

“Thank you for joining us, Sylvain,” Dimitri said sternly, his voice thick with disappointment. “This is the arm of the man who attacked Lady Byleth last moon.”

Sylvain looked up at them with a tilted smirk that clearly said _you must be joking_ , but Dimitri’s steadfast answering stare quickly turned it into a grimace. 

“Oh, okay, so we’ve graduated from tea, to policy, and now to - taxidermy?” He asked, masking his perturbation with humor.

Byleth leaned forward while it was still just the three of them, trying to gauge the extent of his discomfort. “Does it bother you? I can escort you to the academic tearoom until we’re finished, if you’d like?”

Cornelia drifted elegantly up to the table and seated herself, as detached and unbothered as she’d been at the Gautier estate - and just as elaborately dressed. Her jeweled floor-length gown wouldn’t have been out of place at Midwinter, all crushed velvet and lace and certainly not the average day-to-day attire of a practicing physician.

“Good morning, Your Highness. Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head to them both and giving Sylvain a cursory, dismissive glance. “Lord Sylvain is perfectly fine - aren’t you, dear? Surely a royal knight is accustomed to sights such as these.”

Sylvain, who’d been halfway to standing again, sank back down onto the bench. “Yeah, this is - yeah. This is nothing,” he professed, confidence undercut by his right ankle shaking jerkily under the table.

“Good boy.” Cornelia swept the tips of her fingers down Sylvain’s arm and, while he didn’t react to it, a sympathetic shiver rattled up Byleth’s spine. 

“So -” she spread a napkin out on her lap and poured herself a cup of tea, indicating the arm with a nod, “- I assume this is why you required my services today?”

Byleth, from the safety of her veil, gawked as Cornelia sipped leisurely at her cup. That tea was over-steeped, probably bitter and lukewarm by now - not to mention unappealing, given their proximity to a corpse fragment - but she drank it without complaint.

If he noticed anything odd, Dimitri kept it well-concealed. “It is, yes. Thank you for answering my summons on such short notice.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Cornelia replied smoothly. “To be invited inside Garreg Mach as a non-believer - and not even a noble, at that -” she set down her cup, eyes shining with private amusement, “- it’s a rare opportunity, indeed.”

“But how might _I_ be of help, my lady?” She asked, her deferential tone bordering on cunning. “As I understand it, the knights’ medical corps performed a detailed examination of the specimen the very day it was recovered.”

Sylvain, with a plaintive peek at Byleth, chimed in, “Right, they did, and Annette was _really_ thorough with her report. I doubt there’s anything else we could find.”

“I read the report, too,” Byleth replied, offering Sylvain an apologetic half-shrug - as much of a gesture as the setting would allow. “There was a section that described the wound - how the blood looked darker than normal.”

Cornelia nodded sagely. “Yes, I imagine the blood would have been fully coagulated by the time Ser Dominic’s team received it.”

Byleth squinted across the table, glad for her mostly-opaque barrier. Of course she knew how blood behaved - and so did Annette, for that matter. What in the world did Cornelia think augurs and field medics spent their time handling?

“- Well,” Byleth went on, handily ignoring the contribution, “since I’ve received some augury results concerning blood, I thought the two details might be related. The medical corps had no reason to look inside at the time, so I was hoping you could.”

For good measure, she threw in, “Lord Sylvain mentioned that you are _highly_ trusted at court.”

Cornelia regarded Byleth calmly, tapping one painted fingernail against the side of her teacup, and then her lips stretched into a sly grin. “He did, did he? I cannot deny it, Your Grace. A great portion of the Lord Regent’s affairs require...discretion.”

Dimitri and Sylvain shared a pained, commiserating look, though it was better hidden by the latter.

“Needless to say, I will honor your request,” she said, dipping her chin shallowly and drawing a thin leather pouch from seemingly nowhere. “But an autopsy inside a temple of Seiros - you _are_ a strange one, aren’t you?”

Byleth caught herself about to spill the ‘novel avenues’ excuse again and stayed quiet. If Cornelia was, indeed, related to Tomas’s organization in some way, she didn’t really need any explanation for her presence - just like Byleth didn’t really need to see the inside of this dead arm. 

Sylvain pulled over the tea tray, ostensibly to make room for Cornelia to work, but the way he interposed it between himself and the limb suggested it was a defensive move instead. “You’re going to, uh, cut it open?”

Standing and smoothing down her skirts, Cornelia rolled out the leather pouch into a strip of well-secured surgical instruments and tittered, “I am, yes.” 

“Lord Sylvain,” Byleth said quickly, getting to her feet as well and patting her side of the tabletop - the farthest from where Cornelia was setting up. “I want to see the procedure better. Will you switch with me?”

He took up the offer immediately, skirting wide while they changed places and thanking her with a wordless, earnest nod.

Cornelia rolled back her velvet sleeves and slipped a bright steel scalpel from the tool belt, smiling almost indulgently as Byleth came to stand beside her. “Are you interested in the medical sciences, Your Grace? Doesn’t your order eschew such godless practices?”

Officially, in that moment, Cornelia became the second person to ever make Byleth want to defend the Church in any capacity. Compared to the first, this one left her significantly more aggrieved; Felix’s questions, while blunt, had been born of ignorance, but Byleth got the distinct impression that Cornelia intentionally danced on the edge of mockery in all things.

“The Goddess’s gift of healing is limited,” she said, clipped and wary despite her best effort. “It can mend a handful of grievous injuries at a time, but it cannot easily eliminate a widespread affliction - your arts are far more suited to such situations.”

Cornelia brandished the scalpel delicately between her thumb and forefinger, positioning it over the center of Tomas’s wrist, just under the palm. 

“What an interesting view. I daresay you’ll make our nation’s first progressive Archbishop; my colleagues would certainly approve.” As she spoke, she cut a thin line down the center of the arm, matching the trajectory of its dominant vein, separating the pale, wrinkled skin like a trimming blade through parchment.

Since all of its fluids were long drained or leached, the incision was unassuming at first - about as invasive as slicing into a cooked slab of meat. In the corner of her eye, Byleth could see Sylvain relaxing somewhat, like maybe this whole ‘autopsy’ business would be less disturbing than he’d thought.

But then Cornelia pulled out an apparatus that resembled a pair of dull, flat-bladed scissors, inserted them into the cut, and levered apart the flesh - and Sylvain’s dismay flooded back in full force.

Even Dimitri was having trouble maintaining a polite demeanor; he covered his mouth with one hand, while the other was plastered to his midsection, as if he were protecting both wrists from view. “Ah, Lady Byleth -” his voice was uneasy, partially muffled by his glove, “- what exactly are we looking for in regard to the blood?”

Byleth grimaced internally. In hindsight, she probably should’ve anticipated questions like this. “Any irregularities in, uh - color,” she said evasively. 

To cover for the vague explanation, she asked Cornelia in a curious lilt, “So, Lady Arnim, does your position allow you to travel much?”

With a particularly hard wrench and the visceral crack of dehydrated tendon and muscle, Cornelia looked up and smiled mildly, tucking a loose strand of light hair back behind her ear. “Oh, not overly much, but probably moreso than yours.”

She secured her spreading device with a metal rod that maintained tension, giving all parties a clear look into the arm’s interior. Perhaps due to its dried-out state, most of the ancillary tissues had separated cleanly from the bones, providing a well-defined cavity around them.

“Why? Were you thinking of going somewhere?” Cornelia asked, practically leering over the divided arm. Again she’d delivered it like the punchline to an unstated joke; it reminded Byleth, oddly, of speaking with Edelgard and Hubert - like Cornelia had some secret knowledge that deeply entertained her.

Byleth didn’t quite understand the intent behind the question, but it didn’t bear answering. Everyone knew that divine vessels rarely traveled outside Fhirdiad.

Instead, she joined the other three in bending her head over the arm and pretended to closely scrutinize it for clues. The various and stringy bits of flesh inside were mostly the same color - a washed-out pinkish ivory, with veins and denser muscle a darker, rusty red - and if there were any anomalies, they faded into bloodless uniformity.

She knew this going in, though, and so donned her best frustrated expression.

“Well, nothing weird about this dry arm, I guess!” Sylvain declared, backing away first from the group. “It was a nice thought, Lady Byleth, but now perhaps we can follow some more enjoyable leads -”

“Ah,” Cornelia interjected, raising a pair of implements that looked suspiciously like a hammer and chisel, “but we haven’t yet looked _everywhere_ , Lord Sylvain.” She watched him return dejectedly to his position with a morbid sort of glee. “And I could not, in good faith, call this a proper autopsy without an exhaustive search.”

She turned to Byleth, prompting, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh -” Byleth looked up from her (intent and quite convincing, if she did say so herself) inspection, swiftly catching up on the last ten seconds of conversation, “- yes. Absolutely.”

Cornelia chuckled, resting the tip of the chisel-like instrument over the thicker of the arm’s two bones. “If there is something amiss with the blood, we will see its source in the marrow,” she said, and punctuated the final word with a sharp strike of her hammer. The chisel’s sharp point pierced a tiny hole into the bone; she removed it, checked her handiwork, and repositioned it a few inches down.

Undeterred from her mission and the interlude, Byleth pressed on with her original line of questioning, “You are from the Empire, correct? You never visit?”

Another keenly metallic impact filled the room, and another tiny hole appeared in the bone. Cornelia raised her instruments, holding them aloft while she scanned a shrewd eye over Byleth. 

“As it happens - and after thirty years spent living here - most of my connections are in the Kingdom,” she replied, a touch more guarded than before.

The moment passed, though, and soon her permanent, clever smile returned. She readied for a third strike, commenting casually, “But I am _flattered_ that you’re so interested in me, Your Grace.” 

The hammer came down; a bone chip flicked out at an angle, clattering to the table. Sylvain flinched away from it, then attempted to disguise the motion as a stretch.

Cornelia placed the chisel back into the original hole she’d made and gave it a comparatively light tap - and, just like that, the bone split cleanly in half lengthwise.

There wasn’t much time to be impressed, though, as everyone’s attention was promptly diverted to the black, snaking tendrils that filled the bone’s interior like a root system.

Byleth had only seen bone marrow in medical illustrations, but she was fairly certain that this counted as an irregularity.

“You were right,” Dimitri said, leaning in to observe the finer structures; they formed a thick mat over the entire inner surface area, densely woven - and, unlike the rest of the arm, they were still faintly shining with moisture.

Byleth stared blankly at the cleaved bone, echoing in a disbelieving murmur, “I was right...!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my character notes for cornelia:  
> -laughs a lot  
> -cryptic mind games  
> -Fancy (but in an evil way)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (almost) on time! thanks to neonfruit ("you have approximately zero need to apologize for missing your own self-imposed deadlines," which i am now living by) i'm trying to adopt a calmer attitude toward these weekly updates.
> 
> i was also resistant to posting another chapter that happens in the same 30-minute time frame, but as my husband said, "sometimes a lot of things happen at once."
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY [ENDSPIRE](https://endspire.tumblr.com/)

Like most of Seteth’s lectures on Fhirdiad politics, his lessons about the royal court had focused more on its structure and function than its social aspects. He’d taught Byleth the title, family history, and manner of address for every noble in its ranks, but considered the Church to be above its tangled ties and squabbles.

That refusal had left a noticeable gap in Byleth’s ability to deal with the aristocracy - a gap that had been filled, albeit informally, by Felix. For someone who claimed to ignore the court’s ‘frivolities,’ he certainly had some strong opinions on its members. Courtiers, according to him, were all manipulative, wily creatures who would stoop to impossible and ever-deepening lows to improve their standing. 

From what she’d seen of Cornelia so far, Byleth could agree with that valuation; Lady Arnim, despite her callous, borderline rude way of speaking, had amassed enough influence that not even the next Margrave Gautier could comfortably rebuke her. She’d shown herself to be confident, cunning, and intelligent, and Byleth would’ve never thought to see her caught off guard - until now.

Cornelia stared down at the split bone, at its twisted, blackened innards, as dumbfounded as the rest of them. More than confusion, though, there was _fear_. Byleth saw it in the crease of manicured eyebrows; in the uncertain hover of hands clutching too tightly at their instruments.

Whatever this was, she hadn’t been expecting it, nor did she delight in its discovery.

“Not to repeat myself too much,” Sylvain said, laughing nervously, “but _what_ is _that_?”

Dimitri, pale and fixated on the sight before them, echoed the question with a shallow nod in Byleth’s direction.

She understood the impulse - really, she did. When faced with the unfamiliar, people tended to look to the Church for an answer. Usually it _had_ an answer, too, somewhere in its extensive historical and theological annals - but that approach, in the first place, was built upon one ancient assumption: that the Church was the source of all things supernatural.

Recent events, all centering around Tomas, had proven that solidly false, Byleth thought. She was just as lost as her two friends, and yet keenly felt their pressure to provide comfort in knowledge.

“Does this -” she shifted her weight, choosing her words carefully, “- _phenomenon_ \- have any precedent in your field?”

Cornelia finally lowered her arms, setting down her tools with twin metallic clinks. Her head rose at the same pace, eyes darting back and forth like she was performing rapid mental calculations. 

When they met Byleth’s, though, they focused - and, just as she had earlier, Cornelia slipped effortlessly back into her usual persona.

“Oh, my, I was going to ask you the same thing!” She covered her mouth as if horrified by the display - too late to convince Byleth of anything, and Sylvain and Dimitri remained unfortunately spellbound and unaware of the terrible performance.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. I take it you haven’t, either?”

 _Lying_ , Byleth realized. _She’s lying_. The shadow of dread lingered in Cornelia’s tightened brows, and in her light aqua eyes was not the haze of bewilderment, but the glitter of mischief.

Felix’s lessons had prepared her well for this woman.

“No, I have not,” Byleth answered evenly. “There is no historical parallel I can bring to mind.”

She glanced to the bone’s interior, to the dark, bloated ropes that laid thick across it, and then back to Cornelia. “Your experience far outweighs mine, Lady Arnim; what do you make of it?”

It took the greater part of her willpower to restrain her tone from _overtly challenging_ to merely _cheeky_. Byleth still had to be careful, even in irritation; at best, her target was a skilled, haughty courtier. At worst she was an agent of Tomas’s mysterious organization, possibly capable of working the same dark magic he’d wielded in the attack.

 _Careful_ , Byleth thought again, biting the inside of her lip as a wide, wolfish grin spread across Cornelia’s face.

“Yes, please advise us,” Dimitri added, breaking out of his initial shock. He clasped his hands behind his back and corrected his posture into something more regal. “Even if you haven’t encountered this specific ailment, do you know of anything similar?”

Cornelia’s gaze, sharp and appraising, lingered on Byleth’s face for a moment longer than acceptable - like she could see straight through the veil and Byleth’s intentions, both - and then it snapped, suddenly, to Dimitri.

“Certainly, Your Highness,” she said, softening her fierceness to servitude. “I’m afraid I can provide only unfounded theories, however.”

“I’ll take theory over nothing,” Sylvain muttered, eyeing the arm like it might hop up and bite him.

Cornelia smiled and took up her scalpel again - the one she’d used to make the initial incision. “Well, then. I _have_ seen this degree of darkening in extreme cases of necrosis,” she said, drawing the blade expertly down one of the tendrils, “when a wound is left to fester and the surrounding flesh decays alongside it.”

The tendril, already full to bursting, opened easily, and out flowed a viscous, opaquely black fluid. It twisted and bent as it drained, the rapidly releasing pressure giving it the illusion of life - like a worm after a spring rain writhing in the dirt.

Dimitri and Sylvain both recoiled from the spectacle, but Byleth was transfixed. It truly seemed as though these engorged strands could have once been veins, altered from their original purpose by some sort of-

“Corruption,” she whispered, likening it visually to the way Tomas’s magic had felt, slithering around underneath her skin.

Cornelia tilted her head, not enough to break her demure facade, but enough to emphasize her enjoyment. “ _Aptly_ named, Your Grace. It certainly looks as though it grew from a source, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but -” Dimitri leaned closer reluctantly, “- I have seen the wounds you describe, Lady Arnim, and their bearer is always bedridden. Inches from death. In such a state, Tomas wouldn’t have been able to walk, let alone mount an attack.”

Beside him, Sylvain nodded knowingly. The two of them had probably witnessed a fair few knights succumb to such infections, Byleth thought; fighters who fell not to their enemy’s blade, but to a lack of immediate medical support.

“Indeed,” Cornelia acknowledged, “but we are not speaking of a mundane affliction, my lords.”

Her eyes flicked to Byleth. “Allow me to remind you that this Tomas worked strange magic outside the Goddess’s domain - we may only speculate what toll such unholy power might take on the body, no?”

Byleth returned the observation with a slight frown. Something about Cornelia’s words rang false, but she couldn’t pinpoint what. On the surface, they made sense; though it rose from her spirit, her own magic was tied inextricably to her physical form. Why should other magic be any different?

“-But, as long as we’re speculating,” Cornelia went on, pacing languidly back and forth. “Let us say that your assailant _was_...corrupted. Let us say that, as a result of his dark works, his blood took on this terrible quality.”

The hem of her long, layered skirt swished behind her across the stone floor, underlying her speech with its soft rhythm. “Would it not follow, then, to say that this corruption spreads through the blood? Oh, dear -” Cornelia’s footsteps halted abruptly; she turned to face Byleth, her expression one of overly-perfect, innocent concern, “- didn’t you come into contact with his blood, Your Grace?”

Thank the Goddess for her veil, Byleth thought, or the whole room would’ve seen exactly how unamused she was with Cornelia’s acting.

“I am perfectly well, Lady Arnim,” she answered, oozing politeness.

Dimitri looked Byleth over worriedly, like she might be sporting an open wound he hadn’t noticed before. Cornelia picked up on the action in an instant.

“Are you quite sure?” she asked, still feigning care. “Your own power is rooted in the blood, as well, is it not? Have you experienced any _oddities_ in your prophecy of late?”

Byleth drew back, incensed, but managed to stop herself from spitting anything impulsive. That wicked, lively gleam was back in Cornelia’s eyes; she’d _known_. This was nothing more than a taunt, Byleth realized. A confession, but one made from a fortress of impunity - a warning that Byleth was in over her head.

“My, forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend,” Cornelia simpered. “We are only guessing, my lady, as there is no way to know for certain.”

Dimitri visibly relaxed at the reminder; beside him, Sylvain had gone eerily quiet, focused not on the arm any longer, but on Cornelia herself - who definitely noticed, swinging toward him like a mounted ballista, and with all of its precision and violent potential.

Fortunately for everyone involved, two rapid, muffled knocks on the door interrupted that particular engagement.

The angular, ever-stern face of Dedue Molinaro poked through moments later. “Your Highness,” he said, offering minute, respectful bows to everyone in the room and sparing only a passing interest in the arm. “We’ve had a signal fire from Charon. Your presence is needed at the castle.”

“Charon?” Dimitri switched modes between breaths, trading his curiosity in for solemn duty. “Yes. We’ll go at once.”

He flashed Byleth a regretful half-smile. “I’m sorry to have to cut this short, Your Grace, but this news is likely from your father. Lady Arnim,” he added, gesturing to the table in an unspoken instruction, and Cornelia got to work packing everything away.

She rolled up her tools and disappeared them back into the folds of her dress, then unceremoniously closed the two halves of the arm like one might shut a book. The split bone clacked into place much like a pair of ivory hair pins colliding; Byleth thought she might never rid herself of the association.

“I understand. We’ll continue this another time,” Byleth said, trying not to sound too relieved. She dearly needed to regroup after this chain of unwelcome surprises. 

Dimitri hummed in affirmation, already clasping on his heavy cloak. “Indeed, we will. Sylvain, I’m going on ahead; will you escort the good doctor back to the city?”

Sylvain shot Byleth an alarmed, secretive look, and she stepped forward. “Actually, might I have a word with Lord Sylvain? I need some advice for -” he shrugged unhelpfully; she ran through a short list of acceptable monastery activities, “- ah! Training.”

In the corner of her eye, Sylvain nodded proudly, as if he’d contributed anything of use.

“Oh,” Dimitri replied, pausing a few paces from the door. He exchanged a quick glance with Dedue, then nodded his assent. “Very well. I hope you won’t mind a fast pace, Lady Arnim.”

Cornelia, with a re-wrapped bundle of waxed white linen under one arm, gladly took Dimitri’s proffered elbow with the other. “Not at all, Your Highness,” she said, shooting one final, razor-edged smile into the room. “It was a pleasure to see you, Lady Byleth. Do invite me into the Goddess’s sanctum again.”

Byleth and Sylvain watched the open doorway anxiously until the echoes of her bright laughter faded out, then exhaled in unison.

“ _Okay_ ,” Sylvain said, rounding on Byleth in the same way Seteth might after an especially grievous transgression. “Let’s hear it. Why were you and Cornelia acting like that?”

She contemplated lying for all of two seconds before deciding that Sylvain’s uncanny perceptions would be better utilized than deterred, so instead - with a cavalier tug on her veil - she explained, “I think she’s working with Tomas.”

Understandably, he needed a short while to process that. Byleth spent it smoothing her down her hood and gathering cups back onto the tea tray.

Eventually, amid the soft porcelain clinks, Sylvain managed, “- Okay. Okay. What, uh - what makes you think so?”

Byleth turned and rested her back against the table’s edge, bracing her elbows on it and sizing her friend up for readiness. He seemed to be mostly past the surprise, moving into that analytical mindset he tried so hard to hide from others. Good.

“When I first met her. At your party,” she clarified, and recognition sparked in his eyes. “She touched me. It felt like - like what I said earlier. Corruption. It was the same with Tomas’s blood.”

Sylvain shifted, doubt tugging at the corners of his mouth, so Byleth went on briskly, “I know that’s not much of a connection, so that’s why I invited her here today: to get more information. You must admit she behaved strangely.”

“Sure, yeah,” Sylvain conceded with a shallow dip of his head. “That’s just Cornelia, though. She’s always been...off. Most people tolerate it since, you know, she saved us all from a terrible plague.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Though I will grant you that she really shouldn’t have known about Tomas’s magic. Nobody outside the knights and the royal family should; I realize some of the attack’s details have made it pretty far-” Byleth scowled faintly, remembering the sequential parade of revelations from the Adrestian Minuet, “-but we’ve kept a tight lid on that particular aspect.”

 _That_ was it. When Cornelia had mentioned a possible link between the magic and the corruption - _that_ was what had snagged in Byleth’s mind.

“For a nonbeliever, she also knows much about the Church,” she pointed out. “And she made several assumptions about the source of Tomas’s power. She called it ‘unholy’ and ‘dark,’ as if it directly opposes the Goddess - we have made no such claims.”

Sylvain took that in stride, though perhaps not as seriously as a devotee would. “All right, there’s definitely something weird going on. I’m not ready to label her a traitor just yet, but I’ll keep an eye on her movements.”

He stared Byleth down grimly, again imitating one of Seteth’s go-to moves. “And this goes without saying, but you should stop poking a potential hornets’ nest.”

Goddess, they even sounded the same on occasion. 

“Keeping with your metaphor,” Byleth countered, “the ‘hornets’ have already begun to swarm, and I’m merely attempting to chart their flight patterns.”

Sylvain’s left eye twitched. “Fine, forget the hornets - if anything _remotely_ resembling danger happens to you, Felix will murder me, so I’d really appreciate if you’d hold off on the surgery-interrogations until he’s back. For me. Please?”

She barked a laugh at the name, relaxing a small measure. Sylvain was on her side; that could be enough, for now. She had several new leads to follow and an ally in the knights. Progress.

“For your sake, Lord Sylvain, I will,” she said, and he returned her dramatic delivery with a sweeping bow at the waist.

“My lady is too gracious.” He grinned, making a great show of reaching into his jacket pockets and turning them out. “Alas, I cannot repay her kindness, as there has been no correspondence from her prickly lover -”

Byleth hissed, swatting at his arm, “ _Please_ have a care for the setting!”

As per monastery rules, the door to the confessional chamber had remained open after Dimitri’s and Cornelia’s exit. Although these rooms wouldn’t be in use until later - before the evening sermon, during devotional hours - they couldn’t be too wary of eavesdroppers.

“Right, sorry,” Sylvain said, playfully dancing out of her range. “Well, I hope to have a delivery for you next week - and don’t worry about the delay. Frankly, I expected many more.”

Byleth did her best to rein in her disappointment. It wasn’t his fault that Felix’s unit had experienced a setback in the mountains, and Ingrid _had_ warned her of the possibility…

She sat down at the table again and beckoned to Sylvain. “I’m not worried about the delay. I’m worried about you,” she said. “Cornelia wasn’t the only one behaving strangely just now.”

Successfully ambushed, decorum led him most of the way back before giving way to suspicion. He stopped, crossing his arms and pointing an accusatory finger at Byleth. “Hey, you _just_ promised to lay off the interrogations! You won’t get me with that tea, either -” he gave the tray a dubious glance, “- it’s seriously oversteeped by now.”

She raised her brows facetiously. “Must we have tea in order to converse? I thought we were friends, my lord. Why, just the other day, I recall you professing yourself ‘more than just a handsome and capable courier,’ -”

“Okay! Okay.” Sylvain slid obediently onto the opposite bench, steepling his fingers on the tabletop and looking around at the decorative murals. “What would you have me confess, Sister?”

Byleth laughed flatly. “Funny, but confessions usually involve sin. I simply want to know if you’re all right; Tomas’s arm seemed to disturb you greatly.”

His easy smile wavered; a shadow, nearly imperceptible, passed across his face. “Oh, that. Yeah, I bet it was odd to see a knight act so cowardly, huh?”

“No,” she said, simple and straightforward. “I don’t think it was a statement on your character at all. Death is a disturbing concept for most; in fact, a healthy fear of death is probably good in one who deals it.”

Sylvain reached out in a panic like he could pluck her words from the air. “No, listen, I’m _not_ afraid to die, or of killing others. It’s not -” he ruffled his own hair irritably.

“Look, the freshly dead are one thing. They’re fine. No problems.”

After a lapse, Byleth prompted him quietly, “But the preserved dead _are_ a problem?”

He stared at her across the table, tight-lipped like he was fighting an internal battle, and eventually muttered, “I guess I’d have to tell this story sooner or later.”

“Only if you want to,” she said, nodding to the murals. “Confessions must also be willing.”

Sylvain let out a half-amused, half-resigned huff. “Sure, it’s fine. We’re friends, right?”

He brought his hands together, then pressed them to his mouth, sighed deeply, and closed his eyes.

“So, I used to have an older brother. Miklan.” Just saying the name seemed to cause him near-physical pain, stiffening his shoulders and neck. “Obviously, he was the heir to House Gautier before I was born. But there was something... _wrong_...with him, even from a young age."

“He was -” Sylvain hesitated, frowning, but kept his eyes closed - as if the story was easier to tell, that way, “- cruel. Sadistic. To people, animals; anything that defied him, even in the smallest way. Now, you must understand: my family’s territory rests on the Sreng border.”

Byleth was familiar. House Gautier, backed by the might of the crown, had held off countless Srengese invasions. They, along with Fraldarius and Blaiddyd, made up the military backbone of the country.

“Our leaders must be strong in both body and mind to maintain our defenses. Early on, my father saw the weakness in Miklan - and so he named _me_ as the heir instead. My brother didn’t like that one bit, and boy did I pay for it throughout our childhoods.”

He finally opened his eyes, but they were distant and hazy - far away from this room. “Six years ago, Miklan stole my father’s weapon of station, our family’s heirloom riding lance. He formed a group of bandits and terrorized our farmlands, stealing and killing aimlessly. Pointlessly,” Sylvain spat. “Just to satisfy his hunger for dominance.”

Nearly a minute passed in silence while he got his temper under control, breathing steadily and forcing his shoulders down.

“I’d just been knighted - we all had; Felix, Ingrid, Dimitri, and I. It should have been a happy time, but instead we were dispatched to hunt down my brother.” His eyes focused on Byleth’s, regaining their clarity. “Thinking back, that’s probably why Miklan did it. My knighthood was his breaking point.”

She clasped her hands on the table, trying to imagine what it would be like to receive an order to kill Flayn, and couldn’t do it - couldn’t even approach the thought.

“You killed him?” Byleth asked, nearly a whisper; no judgment, just sadness.

Sylvain laughed once, utterly mirthless. “That’s the thing. We tracked him for nearly two moons in the dead of winter, corralling the group, cutting off potential supply sources.” He grimaced. “That was _my_ plan, you know. Mine and Ingrid’s. Felix wanted to surround them and Dimitri proposed a direct, fortified assault - but Ingrid and I argued for patience. Wear them down. I still had hope for taking Miklan alive.”

He shook his head slowly, lamenting the folly of a long-gone decision. “We found him in northern Fraldarius, holed up in an abandoned tower. We thought it was strange that, after so many days without food, none of his band had deserted - but then we found out why.” He propped up his elbow, holding his arm straight to signify the tower, and indicated the highest part of it.

“Way up at the top, we found them - all of them - huddled together in a corner. Frozen.”

Sylvain’s arm fell heavily back down to the tabletop.

“They’d been dead for weeks at that point. Gaunt and starved. We knew because the cold kept them perfectly as they were. There were some by the entrance, faced away from the group, with long gashes in their backs. Like they’d tried to run.”

He smiled bitterly. “I couldn’t believe it at the time. My brother, that piece of rotten garbage, had _killed his own men_ rather than relinquish control. Felix had to haul me out of there on my ass - I was just as paralyzed as those bodies.”

She could see it in her mind’s eye; a crumbling defensive tower in the wilderness, half-reclaimed by the forest and choked with snow and ice. A bedraggled group of bandits climbing its winding staircase, bone-weary and malnourished, with not enough fight in them to resist their leader. Two dozen men hunched against a wall, watching powerlessly as any who tried to escape were cut down, sinking ever lower into a frigid, permanent slumber.

“Anyway.” Sylvain waved a hand in front of his face, struggling to return to his usual baseline cheer. “Miklan got a pauper’s burial outside my family’s estate, I was congratulated on my first official mission, and now I try to avoid the long-dead whenever I can.”

“Oh, Sylvain.” Byleth’s heart was in her feet, cold and still; she’d forced him to endure such a virulent trauma. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you take my offer?”

He peered at her from beneath coyly fluttering eyelashes. “No title? My, _Byleth_ , we’ve grown closer than I’d thought!”

She promptly kicked him underneath the table, earning a startled laugh.

“I told you before,” he said, standing to avoid her deadly feet, “Cornelia has the Blaiddyds’ eternal gratitude - and that makes her a cornerstone of the court. If I want to keep playing the intrigue game - and I _do_ \- then I can’t cross her.”

“- Publicly,” he tacked on with an impish grin.

Byleth wasn’t convinced. She'd seen how his hands shook during that story, and how pale he’d become during the autopsy. This was something that still bothered him intensely. “Even at the cost of your own health?”

Sylvain had reached the door, sticking his head out to ensure their privacy. He looked back over his shoulder with a dry smirk. “There’s always a cost to this life, Your Grace. I’m lucky that mine is pretty easy to avoid.”

He thumped his hand against the doorframe before Byleth could respond. “Well, this was lovely. I’ll see you Wednesday for another thrilling First Devotion.”

She stood indignantly and followed, ready to call after him, but he’d covered his escape; a single nun walked the length of the hall, checking and replacing the sconces’ candles, precluding any chasing.

It was just as well. His retreating back, rigid and haunted, spoke of over-vulnerability and regret. Perhaps she _should_ give him some space to recover from that confession.

Besides, on top of all of the data she’d gathered from Cornelia, there was suddenly a new question to consider:

If there was ‘always a cost’ to a high station, then what was hers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> papa solon's nasty bone juice, coming to a store near you


	31. Chapter 31

As always, the birds woke her before the bells, and Byleth dragged herself out onto her balcony to watch the sunrise. She tracked that familiar, jagged seam of orange light across Fhirdiad’s various districts, irrationally annoyed that - at some point, inevitably - it had passed over _Cornelia Arnim_ but not Felix Fraldarius.

Her elbows hit the railing with a dull thud.

There were no two ways about it; she’d been outplayed yesterday. Cornelia had managed to avoid giving away anything substantial, while simultaneously mocking Byleth’s own lack of context - and highlighting her inability to get more.

It felt like she’d traded in a single question - _Is Cornelia involved with Tomas’s organization?_ One hundred percent, yes - for a slew of new ones. How had Cornelia known about Byleth’s prophecy issues? Why was she so afraid of the corruption inside Tomas’s bones? Why was the corruption there in the first place?

Byleth glared down at her left arm. This investigation would be going a lot faster, she thought bitterly, if a certain Goddess would dispense Her wisdom in the traditional fashion.

“How does Cornelia know about the skull?” she asked, grabbing her augur spike. This wasn’t a selfish inquiry, not really; it was more of a test. If she started getting real answers again, she’d rather know sooner than later, and the only way to _know_ was to _try_.

Thus justified, she brought the spike down on her wrist. A thin stream of blood trickled to the floorboards, morphing into the skull’s hollow-eyed visage as soon as it made contact. Its pinprick pupils stared up into the morning sky - and so did Byleth, hunting for a glimpse of the Blue Sea star before sunlight overtook it.

“Hey!” she called out to its faint glimmer, pointing to her answer like it was a spilled carafe of milk. “It’s just us now, Sothis. You can explain Yourself!”

A cold breeze swept across the balcony, lifting Byleth’s hair and smearing the blood sign sideways. To her it seemed rather impetuous, as if the Goddess were highlighting an explanation already present.

She raised her hands and her voice to the fading star, “Yeah? You angry? Well, I’m angry, too!”

The wind died down; the skull, now unrecognizably stretched, evaporated. 

Byleth scuffed a slippered foot in the space it had occupied, gaining an odd catharsis from her rudeness. “You can conjure up a little draft but You can’t tell me about Cornelia?”

She held out her arm and tried anew, “What does that stupid skull mean?”

The spike dug into her vein; she winced but bore it, stubbornly fixated on extracting a new answer. Sothis had never stonewalled one of Her followers like this, not in over three millennia - so there must be some detail Byleth was missing from these signs, she thought. There _must_ be.

This time, her blood lingered on the boards in a domelike pool, rippling softly even though the air was calm - but eventually it did form an answer, reaching out with red tendrils to shape the angular, skeletal face once more.

She pursed her lips. As soon as it disappeared, she squared her shoulders and straightened her arm, asking in a strained, exasperated shout, “Why won’t You help me understand?”

Again she nicked her wrist, more carefully than the last attempt, and again her blood gathered into a perfectly round droplet, quivering as though hesitant.

This had happened in the library, too, she remembered. The later answers had taken a few moments to manifest, and the blood had been unnaturally dark and sluggish. Fear flashed across her mind, sudden and forceful as a lightning strike - what if Cornelia was right? What if Tomas’s corruption had somehow spread; somehow infected Byleth? - but she quashed it with a firm hand and steady breaths.

She’d performed many oracles between the attack and the skull’s appearance, she reminded herself, and they’d all been normal. Cornelia had only been trying to sow doubt; Byleth mustn’t let her succeed.

The droplet went still, then branched out all at once into the skull’s outline, filling itself in with inky, thickened blood. 

She slammed a fist down onto the railing, not even waiting for the sign to dissipate before turning her palm up and loudly, indignantly demanding, “What do You _want_ from me?”

Angry tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she dug the spike into her wrist, and just when a fresh red stream issued from the wound, the yet-existing skull on the floor went up in a roar of holy fire. 

White-orange flames danced across the blood’s surface as if it were oil, darkening to a bluish purple where the two substances met, lighting up the vicinity in a mix of clashing colors.

Byleth took an instinctive half-step away from the blaze, but as soon as it had flared to life, it went out. Not a trace of fire or soot, nor of the skull, remained on her balcony floorboards afterward.

In its place, her fresh blood gathered into that same round dome. A thick line grew from the left side - imperfect and graded, as if drawn by an invisible finger - and slowly bent up and around to the right, eventually joining back with itself to form a complete ring.

She bent over it, too stunned for continued anger. Yes, the holy fire was strange and she had a lot to think about, but - an answer! A _different_ answer!

There was no paper in her vicinity, but she was confident she’d be able to retain such a simple shape. Circles were one of the most fundamental geometric answers an augur could receive, but they were usually woven into a larger pattern or seen accompanying some other symbol.

Byleth struggled to think of what it could mean by itself. Circles represented a cycle, or a fullness, or some sort of totality - none of which seemed to apply to her question, at least on the surface. And why had the Goddess chosen _this_ question to break Her pattern?

As she considered that, the sign evaporated. Byleth rubbed her tingling wrist and poised it, eager for more data.

“Does the skull represent an imminent danger?” she asked, thinking to clarify Rhea’s and Seteth’s competing theories. She brought her augur spike down more reluctantly now, but there was no avoiding the deep, permeating ache of this fifth consecutive stab, or the stinging draw on her veins.

The most acute pain, however, came in the form of the bestial, skeletal face that stared up at her from the floor. 

“Oh, Sothis, I thought we were past this,” Byleth groaned, sagging against the railing from equal parts disappointment and blood loss. 

She’d just flexed her left hand, contemplating another attempt, when the lilt of choral voices floated in from the main temple. Byleth recognized the melody as the opening hymn of Third Devotion’s morning prayer, a pleasant song of praise to the Four Saints - and that recognition jogged another, more urgent memory:

She was supposed to be meeting with Seteth in the archive at this very moment.

\---

Since most of the faithful were upstairs in the atrium, the long, pitch-black archive hall was mostly deserted. Byleth had chosen this meeting time for that very reason, and now thanked her past self again for the consideration.

It was vexing enough having to deal with a pounding headache and a dimmer-than-normal illuminating flame; it would be near-torturous to do so while dodging priests. She felt it was reasonable, at this point, to say that the physical cost of five oracles went a bit beyond her limits.

Through the layers of stone and wood above, muted strains of song filtered down into the dusty air. A few lively bars of _How Patient, Saint Cichol_ accompanied her turn onto the relevant row of bookshelves, and she could only hope that the distant blue light at the end shared his ancestor’s lauded virtues.

Even under the threat of a lecture, excitement sped her down the row. They were currently combing the augury records for mentions of skulls; now, Byleth could add ‘circles and rings appearing alone’ to her search criteria. She might even let Seteth in on her experiment’s results, if his temperament allowed.

However, as she drew closer to her research partner, that idea seemed less and less likely - not because of any deficiency of mood on his part, but because _his_ hair was only shoulder-length, and he tended not to wear the elaborate mantle of the Archbishop.

Byleth’s energized footsteps flagged and then stopped completely. She hovered a few feet away, half-turned back toward the exit, but it was much too late to get out unseen; there were only two people in this total darkness, and they were both glowing.

“Blessed Third Devotion,” Rhea called softly, lowering the book in her hands. She had the grace to look at least a little guilty, standing there like this was anything but an ambush.

Byleth reluctantly closed the gap, composing herself on the way. “Blessed Third Devotion,” she mumbled, grabbing a random record from the shelf. “Is Seteth ill?”

She already knew the answer, of course; Seteth hadn’t missed his duties once in the fifteen years he’d been at the monastery. Byleth just wanted to know if he was a fellow victim or a co-conspirator.

“Not at all,” Rhea said, nodding upward. “In fact, he is leading the congregation in my place today.”

 _Co-conspirator_ , Byleth confirmed dourly, flipping the pages without really seeing them. He _knew_ things were tense between her and Rhea, and - damn him, this was an attempt to get them to reconcile, wasn’t it?

“Please, dear one, do not be cross with us,” Rhea entreated. “I only wanted to spend time with you. We have seen so little of each other, lately.”

Byleth looked up from the record to gauge her mentor’s sincerity. Unsurprisingly, there was no master manipulator underneath the copper headpiece - just a lonely matriarch seeking comfort from her only living blood relative.

(It would be much easier to hold this grudge, she thought, if Rhea were like Cornelia - gleefully pulling strings in the shadows - or Rufus - so inept as to be indistinguishable from malicious.)

“All right,” Byleth relented, letting out her indignation in a long sigh. She pointed out a particular section of the shelf. “Seteth got through the twenty-seven-nineties last time, so start here. We’re looking for any instances of skulls, no matter how minor.”

A tentative, hopeful smile broke out on Rhea’s face. She obediently exchanged her book for one of the indicated ones, settling in next to her protege.

For a time, all was quiet. They pored over records while melodic voices echoed faintly around the hall, systematically working backward through the long history of augury answers. 

It was nice, but Byleth wasn’t kidding herself; it was _too_ nice. Rhea wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of hijacking this meeting if she didn’t have something specific to say, even if she _was_ partially motivated by loneliness.

And so Byleth kept Rhea in her peripheral vision at all times, ready to react. She was almost relieved when the moment came - when Rhea glanced over, pensive, and drew a breath to speak - because even if this conversation was unpleasant, at least the tension was broken. At least they could both stop playing at tranquility.

“So - Seteth tells me that you are considering ascension,” Rhea commented. She kept her voice light and casual, but the angle of her torso suggested a deeper interest. 

Byleth didn’t even need to intuit that; from the moment she’d transformed, Rhea had been openly preparing her for the role of Archbishop. 

“I have been.” Byleth didn’t look up from her record, hoping that would be the end of it. Her mind was packed with theories and suspicions about Cornelia, Tomas, the skull - the _ring_! - the corrupted blood; she hadn’t the time or the patience to entertain anything else.

Unfortunately, Rhea didn’t seem inclined to silence.

“And he _also_ mentioned that you negotiated with a Leicester lord on Prince Dimitri’s behalf,” she continued, smiling like a pleased mother. 

Satisfaction and repulsion formed a queasy mess in Byleth’s gut. She lifted her book slightly - a shield of paper and ink between them. “I did, yes. Where are you going with this?”

Rhea’s smile tilted to sympathy. “Nowhere, child. I only wanted to highlight your achievements, as they deserve recognition.”

Carefully, Byleth let down her barrier just a touch. Maybe Rhea wasn’t looking to push her, after all.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, raising her head at last. “I - actually enjoyed negotiating with the count. His Highness said that I have a knack for it.”

“I do not doubt that in the slightest,” Rhea said, practically beaming. “Seteth and I are so proud of you, Byleth. I know you will do great things.”

The corners of Byleth’s mouth twitched upward. Above them, the choir faded out and a muffled, reverberating voice - it must have been Seteth - began the saintly benedictions.

Rhea was being downright _agreeable_. Byleth might have found it creepy if it wasn’t so convenient - she needed help with Cornelia, and she needed it now. Perhaps Rhea would make a good ally; perhaps Byleth could set aside her own feelings for this. It was for a good cause. A good cause, she told herself.

“It has been truly rewarding to see you flourish without distraction,” Rhea said, exuding warmth, but Byleth’s blood froze instantly.

It was like a chasm opened underneath their feet. Cornelia’s visit, the autopsy, the procession of identical skulls, political teatimes with Sylvain and Dimitri, ditching Holy Maiden duty with Flayn, Felix’s letters, _missing Felix_ , his deployment - the void swallowed it all, clumsily stitching this frayed end of time to the graveyard after Midwinter.

She and Rhea had stood just like this in front of Sitri’s tombstone. Rhea had even spoken the same word. _Distraction_.

 _In the absence of distraction_ , she’d said.

Byleth struggled to fill her lungs; the chasm had taken that, too.

“Is that why you sent him away?” she asked weakly, bracing herself on the bookshelf. The world was spinning; a sickly, acidic lump was rising in her throat. She looked up at Rhea, lost and desperate for any answer other than the one she suspected.

“Oh, darling,” Rhea cooed, setting down her book and smoothing back Byleth’s hair. “You must be distraught. But think of your progress of late - I have seen it. Your drive. Your clarity of purpose.”

She covered Byleth’s hands with her own, drawing her protege’s attention down to the record they held. “ _Look_ , my dear one. Your initiative has been astounding! And it is all due to an unclouded mind.” Rhea’s eyes darkened a few shades. “A singular focus.”

Byleth tried to find the wisdom in that argument, but only arrived at the numb, cold certainty that _Rhea_ \- her fears, her traumas, her crushing authority - was the sole reason for Byleth’s current state of isolation. The sole reason for Felix’s exile to a pointless task. 

She had no _words_.

Slowly, methodically, she freed her hands from Rhea’s and drew back, taking the record - which had resumed its function as a shield - with her. The lump in her throat remained, heavy and oppressive, but her shock had melted to sadness - and then bubbled to a simmering rage.

“Don’t do this again,” she said, dangerously even-keel, and gestured to the space around them. “I will conduct my research with Seteth, or alone. But not with you.”

Rhea advanced, arms outstretched, and Byleth took another, equidistant step away. 

“Byleth,” Rhea urged, anxiously holding her ground. “Listen to me. I know this must be confusing, but can you not see? The mere mention of this - connection - threw you into such turmoil. You were never like this before!”

Byleth’s inner flame sparked, upping the simmer to a seething, rolling boil.

“Never like - how would you know what I was _like_ ?” she challenged, her piqued voice ringing out over the empty hall. “You only wanted me to be Sothis - just the vessel of the Goddess. Not a person. Not _Byleth_ . Not your _granddaughter_.”

She spat every word like venom, dripping hurt and a decade of bitterness. It felt good in a twisted sort of way, and each admission stoked the fire.

“I followed your rules for ten years, Rhea! I never got to choose - never. You told me when to sleep, when to eat, to study, to pray, and I did it. I did _everything_ you asked! And the one time I -” her voice broke, hoarse and thick, “- the _one_ time I got to choose, you took him away like it was _nothing_!”

The pot frothed over. Angry red flame spilled, scalding, from her hands, engulfing the augury record and whipping like a lash toward Rhea. Byleth lurched forward, slamming the lid down on her power before it could reach her mentor; it worked. The flame-tongue dissolved, but the record was lost. Its brittle, ancient pages curled and blackened in the heat, and eventually the entire volume crumbled, coating Byleth’s hands in fine gray ash.

Neither of them spoke. Byleth couldn’t look up from the carnage, afraid of what she might see on Rhea’s face. Disappointment? Validation? Regret? None would be more potent or more punishing than her own horror.

Instead she took one shaky step backward, then another, and another. Rhea said nothing as Byleth fled the scene, filling the archive with panicked, echoing footsteps - and the faint chorus of a closing hymn, _O Carry Us Skyward_ , chased her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that one priest who couldn't get out of the archive fast enough: 😬😬😬


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! I'm gonna take the rest of this week and next week off to recharge my batteries (and also do some plot organization prep work for nano)
> 
> Happy spooky season!!

Her trowel’s blade glanced uselessly off frozen, unyielding earth for the third time. The resulting disappointment - the harsh futility of repeat failure - poked her squarely in the rejection-shaped bruise that Sothis and Rhea had formed earlier.

It was just a stupid  _ carrot _ , not a tight-lipped goddess or an overbearing mentor; this mere vegetable would not overthrow her. Not after everything she’d been through today.

And so Byleth took her gardening tool in both hands, poising it above the carrot as if it were the heart of her mortal enemy - but before she could drive it down, a firm hand stilled its descent.

“You won’t get anywhere like this, Your Grace,” Mercedes said quietly, watching over her lady with gentle, patient eyes.

Byleth, shaken out of her spiraling thoughts, allowed Mercedes to pry the trowel from her clenched fist. She flexed blood back into numb fingers, giving her friend a deep, grateful nod, which Mercedes returned wholeheartedly.

Her world expanded again to its normal size, unveiling the winter-muted colors of the temple’s back garden, midday birdsong from beyond the nearby eastern wall, and the doomed fumblings of her other two companions.

Flayn had tried to pull her carrot directly up by the greens, resulting in a handful of stalks and not much else, while Annette seemed to be taking Byleth’s same hack-and-slash approach - and with identical results.

Mercedes looked sadly upon her three pupils’ attempts, halting them with a raised hand and a drawn-out sigh.

“All right, I’ve seen enough,” she said, confiscating all of the remaining tools. “Honestly, I expected as much from Lady Flayn and Lady Byleth - but Annie?”

She swiveled toward Annette, who wilted in the snow like a flower caught in a deep freeze. “I thought these labors were taught in pagehood?”

“Well, they  _ are _ , but -” Annette ducked her head sheepishly, “- I was always dropping the baskets, and Ingrid said it was an ‘unacceptable waste of food,’ so...she just...switched her cleaning shift with my garden shift, sort of. Permanently.”

“How very kind of her!” Flayn chirped, setting her decapitated leaves down neatly, and Annette flashed her a bright grin.

“I know, right? Ingrid got to safeguard our food supply and I got really,  _ really _ good at cleaning.”

Mercedes, wearing a kind smile tinged with worry, knelt before Annette’s plot. “That’s no good, Annie. Gathering your own food is an important skill to have, no matter how sheltered or assisted you are,” she said, looking to everyone in turn. “Watch me closely.”

She worked the tip of a trowel between a carrot and the surrounding earth, wiggling the blade back and forth until there was a small pocket of space around the entire thing. From there, she was able to yank it up like Flayn had tried - and failed - to do previously, and held it up to her audience.

“There. It’s as easy as that!” Mercedes deposited it in the basket at her side, and then, after some consideration, moved it out of Annette’s reach. “Now, who would like to go next?”

“Ah - I would! It seems quite like gutting a fish!” Flayn exclaimed, raising her hand and straining forward - stretching, but not breaking, her proper sitting position.

Mercedes giggled and handed over one of the tools, teasing, “So you can prepare a fish but not harvest a carrot, Sister Flayn? However did that come about?”

Likewise, Annette scrunched up her nose and laughed. “Yeah, that’s a pretty weird skill set. Do you tend to break things, too?”

Flayn whipped her head to the side, pleading and uncertain in her misstep, and Byleth sat up a bit straighter.

She tried to muster up the same excited energy, but couldn’t. She should be ecstatic, seeing her best friend get on so well with others, but she was just so pervasively  _ tired _ \- physically, from the blood loss; emotionally, from the confrontation - that it was all she could do to present a neutral face.

(Fortunately, she thought, ‘reserved’ was the Holy Maiden’s preferred public disposition, so few were likely to question it.)

“Sister Flayn and I are sometimes permitted to use the kitchens,” she explained, picking a convenient and easily verifiable half-truth, and the immediate relief in Flayn’s eyes brought a genuine, if weary, smile to her lips.

“That’s wonderful,” Mercedes said, casually correcting Flayn’s weapon-like grip on the trowel to something softer. “I suppose I won’t have to teach you how to cook, then!”

Recalling their most recent foray into baking - they’d succeeded in creating the world’s densest, most inedible sponge cake - Byleth commented flatly, “No, you’ll still need to teach us.”

“ _ Oh _ , that is most untrue!” Flayn, amid the good-natured chuckles of their fellows, bent over her carrot to hide a blush that showed even through her veil. “I would have you know that Father ate every bite of our last attempt.”

Byleth hummed and said nothing. Seteth  _ had _ diligently consumed everything they’d ever made - even if it was little more than a blackened rock - but not because it was delicious. His fatherly pride would simply allow for nothing less.

Just as she left Seteth to his voluntary torture, she granted Flayn a reality in which any of their food was remotely passable.

“- Whoa, hey,” Annette said, pointing over their heads. “It’s the Leicester delegation! They’re really early.”

Byleth turned, fearing they’d be instantly spotted - but several rows of bare-branched fruit trees stood between the front and back of the temple, affording them partial cover. She shaded her eyes to get a better look.

A modest group of ten or so walked slowly down the main path, and their bannerman indeed bore the Leicester Alliance’s ambassadorial flag - though its subservient crest was not of House Gloucester, as she’d expected, but of House Edmund.

“It is,” she confirmed, frowning as she tried to discern the procession’s leader. “But I don’t see the margrave anywhere.”

Flayn abandoned her partially-excavated carrot to join in on the peeking. “Margrave? I thought you granted oracles to the count?”

Byleth mused, “I  _ did _ ,” but then a demurely dressed woman with pale blue hair came into view and the puzzle clicked together.

“Oh, that’s Lady Marianne!” Annette dusted off her hands and came to watch, as well; Mercedes, seeing that all of her students were utterly distracted, followed. “I spoke with her at Midwinter, but I didn’t know she was a diplomat - she was so shy.”

Mercedes nodded approvingly. “House Edmund is entirely devout. They were quite courteous to send a woman of the faith to the monastery.”

“But - I do not understand.” Flayn tilted her head up at Byleth. “Count Gloucester petitions Lady Rhea  _ every year _ . Why would he not take this chance?”

The delegation passed through the temple’s wide doors, which then swung heavily shut behind them. Inside, Seteth would be waiting with several senior priests to answer exactly five oracle-level inquiries - one from each of the Great Lords.

“He couldn’t,” Byleth said with a dry smirk. “Not if he wanted to stay on the emperor’s good side.” 

She got a warm, vengeful thrill imagining that infuriating man coming to the same conclusion - that his visiting the Church in person would be tantamount to alliance, at least informally, after his extensive collaboration with the Kingdom over the royal road system.

“Ah,” Mercedes said, cuing in to the problem. “What an odd dance they perform in Leicester.”

Flayn squinted dubiously at the closed atrium. “Indeed. I believe I see why Father is so reluctant to treat with them - hm?” She paused, casting her eyes downward, and placed a hand over her heart.

“Lady Flayn?” Annette hovered over Flayn’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Byleth turned from the temple, political vindication forgotten.

“I am - I do not know.” Flayn rubbed at her sternum, brow wrinkled in both confusion and discomfort. “I feel a great pressure inside of me, and the air is...heavy.”

A shiver zipped up Byleth’s spine; as she opened her mouth to voice her concerns, an invisible weight descended on her shoulders. Just as Flayn had described, it wormed into her chest cavity and expanded, pushing outward against bone and skin.

It choked her, physically and spiritually, assaulting her inner flame like a strong wind buffeting a candle, and Byleth knew what this was. 

These same oppressive waves, though weaker, had first washed over her a moon ago, not twenty feet away on the dirt-and-gravel path, when Hubert had visited the monastery - and they had come again from both him  _ and _ Edelgard at Midwinter.

_ Source _ , she thought, clutching at the front of her robe.  _ This feeling must have a source _ .

As Mercedes and Annette worked together to stabilize Flayn, Byleth whipped her head around to scan the grounds.

The front of the temple and its side gardens were still empty - only the back garden, which they currently inhabited, grew winter crops. Some distant splotches of white marked clergy traveling between buildings, but none were close enough to produce such a potent effect. 

That left the area behind them, the space between their garden and the eastern wall; nobody should be there and yet, when she turned to look, there was.

_ A demon _ , her brain supplied first, conjuring stories of the terrifying blood beasts of eld, but this figure’s proportions were entirely human. They stood in a ring of melted snow, fully armored in jet-black plate, imposing and starkly out of place - and the  _ face _ -

She knew this face; or rather, this helm. Its skeletal features sat, rendered in scrawling charcoal, in piles on her bedroom floor; bound in records in Seteth’s office; branded in her mind from dozens of fruitless oracles - and now she could say with certainty that its pinprick eyes, focused truly on her for the first time, were indeed a vibrant crimson-red.

The figure - the demon; the ghost; the unheeded portent - which had before been unnaturally still, shifted at her notice. They raised a long, curved scythe in both gauntleted hands, and though their skull-helm showed nothing of emotion, Byleth got a distinct impression of eagerness from their posture.

“Annette,” she breathed, reaching blindly to garner her friend’s attention, keeping her eyes on the intruder.

The indistinct bustling and fretting ceased; with the speed of a trained defender, Annette moved in front of the group, drawing twin hand axes from her belt.

“Halt!” she called out, carrying far more authority in her voice and bearing than usual. “You are in the presence of the Holy Maiden. State your purpose at once!”

Wordlessly, the figure advanced on the garden, taking slow, heavy steps that boiled the surrounding snow. The reaping edge of their scythe ignited in bright purple flame; from the way Annette’s face hardened in response, Byleth guessed that the knights had been briefed on Tomas’s dark magic.

“Go. Alert Lord Seteth,” Annette tossed over her shoulder, then eyed the way Byleth was holding a trowel like a makeshift dagger. 

Annette had likely intended to fight alone, but Byleth wasn’t stupid; this mysterious aggressor was not only in full plate, but they wielded a weapon with tremendous reach. Without help, a single unarmored combatant wouldn’t last long.

Lacking time to argue, Annette simply pursed her lips and nodded.

“I am Ser Annette Fantine Dominic of Faerghus!” she declared, planting her feet firmly. “Who are  _ you _ , to dare trespass on holy ground?”

Byleth knew this technique. Knights who specialized in toe-to-toe engagements would shout and taunt their foes this way in order to draw attention - to let their allies operate in the periphery. She brandished her weapon, pushing through the waves of unpleasant energy rolling off their opponent, and rallied her inner flame.

In a distorted, gravelly voice, the masked assailant answered simply, “I am your end.” 

They held their scythe out to the side like a farmer might do in a field of ripe wheat and swept it thus, leaving a trail of hazy miasma in its wake. 

Annette nimbly dodged the blade, using her slight build to bounce right back into striking range, but an exploratory swipe of her axes merely clanged off sturdy metal.

She and Byleth shared a look, hesitating at the edge of the scythe’s reach. They wanted an armor-breaker for this task - a hammer or a polearm - but were stuck with side arms and gardening tools; if they couldn’t control the space or get backup, this would be a losing fight.

The skull-faced knight took advantage of the indecision, stepping forward with a diagonal arc of their weapon that cut another purple slash through the air - but this time, they didn’t stop there. Almost as if they’d been gauging Annette’s range and skill, they reversed their grip on the scythe and swung it back, catching her shallowly across the midsection before she could fully retreat.

Annette stumbled backward; a thin line of red was already seeping through her riding jacket, staining her front in a rapidly elongating curtain. The knight pressed on - and Byleth zipped to their flank.

Before he’d left, she and Felix had been working on a magic-based maneuver to disarm her opponents, one she’d used to great effect against Ingrid and Rhea. In the scant window between Annette’s injury and the knight’s next attack, Byleth deliberated another application of the technique:

If she could use holy power to shatter a weapon, why not use it to blast off a piece of armor?

With only moments to mull over the idea, it seemed pretty solid to her.

And so she sidled in close when the knight wound up for another swing, summoning the punishing flame to her hands; it was weak and dimmer than normal, but she could compensate for that.

The knight tilted their head at her approach, boring into her with those glowing red pupils, and altered the angle of their scythe - aiming to pummel Byleth with the wooden haft, she realized.

“Annie!” Mercedes shouted in a panic as she ran back across the garden. 

Instantly, the knight seized up, head snapping to the source of the voice; their scythe went harmlessly wide, with both of the targets able to easily dodge its aborted momentum.

Byleth didn’t stop to analyze this; she jammed her trowel blade under the knight’s left vambrace and channeled as much magic through it as she could, gritting her teeth from the immense spiritual pull. 

A river of red-orange fire poured forth into the opening, instantly melting the cheap iron of her makeshift weapon - and then, just like in training, she detonated it.

Molten metal splashed in all directions and the knight’s forearm plate went with it. They recoiled from the heat and the shockwave with a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper, turning their face from the divine flame like the mere sight of it harmed them.

Annette came rocketing in for a follow-up attack, sinking a hatchet into the knight’s newly exposed arm, and then black blood splattered the snow alongside hissing iron. She nodded to Byleth, smiling grimly despite her abdomen wound, and moved into position to strike again.

But their victory was short-lived. The knight recovered unnaturally fast from a fiery bath and an axe to the elbow; they seemed to shrug off the pain as one might discard a shawl, looking from Mercedes, to Annette, and then finally to Byleth.

The skull helm’s pinprick eyes grew impossibly narrower, honing in on her, and they let their scythe fall heavily to the ground. They drew themself back up to full height - looming over Byleth, bathing her in cold shadow tinted orange by holy embers - and reached out to her with their good arm.

Byleth was a keen student and a good fighter. She could track a sudden blow, but the knight’s snakelike lunge was too quick even for her.

In the blink of an eye, freezing, armored fingers closed around her throat. They squeezed and lifted her off the ground, pulsing dark energy that strangled her truer than any physical constraint.

“They said you’d be a challenge,” the knight rumbled, sounding inexplicably pleased.

Byleth clawed at the hand, finding little purchase in rigid metal. Annette hacked and pulled at the knight’s arm, but they were no longer paying her faint blows any attention. Their grip tightened again; Byleth gasped, trying to call her power, but she’d spent it all.

Time melted to a thick sludge as her vision darkened around the edges. She turned her head in excruciatingly slow motion to see a frozen panorama, all its actors moving as though they were suspended in deep water.

Mercedes stood rooted in horror, fixated as closely on the skull knight as they’d been on her, bringing both hands to her mouth at a snail’s pace. Farther back, Seteth had broken from the side temple doors at an arrested sprint, his hands brandished and alight with flame.

Closer, Annette had dropped an axe and was desperately grabbing for something. Byleth panned down to find Flayn, her eyes wide, tears flowing openly down her face, clinging to the skirt of Byleth’s robe.

For a fleeting instant, her presence was a comfort.  _ Flayn is here _ , Byleth thought warmly, vaguely, floating away from consciousness.  _ Flayn is here, no harm can come _ .

But then a translucent purplish mist coalesced around them and that comfort bled to icy fear - and then to nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert that meme of itachi choking sasuke but its jeritza and byleth]


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey--!! i'm not dead, just real slow! guess i needed more time on this than i thought
> 
> anyway happy early halloween and enjoy this chonker of a political intrigue chapter!
> 
> (spooky chapter coming up next, it'll be belated halloween vibes)

Sylvain stifled a yawn, enduring a scathing glare from Count Galatea for the transgression. He grinned behind the safety of his sleeve; the count was lucky he was Ingrid’s father, or else Sylvain wouldn’t have thought twice about throwing that secret grin, a wink, and probably a few veiled comments back at him.

In fact, the finely assembled line of Fhirdiad lords should’ve felt lucky that Sylvain had bothered to show up at all. It was barely ten in the morning on a Sunday and he’d been out with the Rowe sisters the night before. (A necessary palate cleanser, he’d reasoned, to wash away the unpleasantness of Cornelia’s _exhibition_.) 

The only reason he’d even answered the summons - in the absence of Margrave Gautier, who was likely recovering from his own night of merriment - was because it arrived scrawled in Dimitri’s own hand, hurried and inelegant. 

And so, only forty short minutes ago, Sylvain had rolled out of bed and trussed himself up for court - though for what, exactly, he couldn’t say. The missive had contained nothing further and Dimitri had yet to show himself. These dozen or so lords, all important law-making voices in the capital, had been left to stew for the better part of an hour.

 _To stew_ , Sylvain thought, cutting his eyes toward Count Charon, _and to complain_.

Right on cue, the man sniffed impatiently and appraised the (still open, still vacant) doors to the Grand Hall, just as he had twice before, and at increasingly predictable intervals.

“One might think the prince did not respect our time overmuch,” the count commented, nodding to the three empty thrones on the royal dais. His shiny, coiffed blonde hair bobbed along with the motion. “To presume so much of our leisure, even on a devotional day.”

This seemed to rankle Count Rowe, who throttled the neck of his ornamental walking cane like the hilt of a blade. “One might _think_ whatever one _likes_ , and yet we wait upon His Highness’s convenience all the same.”

The man spoke through gritted teeth, and though his icy words were aimed at Count Charon, his eyes - furious specks of gray inlaid in a pinched, wrinkled face - kept flicking to, and then rapidly away from, Sylvain.

Fortunately, Count Rowe stood to his right - farther away from the thrones, as per the court’s hierarchy - and so it was perfectly plausible for Sylvain to pretend fixation on the exit and avoid the man’s glares all together.

“Quite right. Quite right,” Count Galatea said from even farther down the line. As usual, he took a peacekeeping role within the assembled lords, softening his voice to calm their more easily angered elements. “Perhaps our interlude would pass more pleasantly in silence?”

Count Rowe thumped his cane on the stone floor in answer, grunting out one of those harsh sounds exclusive to the belligerently old and self-important. The considerably meeker Count Charon, too, took the opportunity to duck back into obscurity, not wanting to risk any more outbursts from the formidable commander of Arianrhod.

Sylvain, secure in the knowledge that he, himself, was both responsible for and safe from any such outbursts, merely enjoyed the show. Rowe was expecting a fresh battalion of Gautier horsemen for its perimeter; the count simply couldn’t impugn House Gautier at this time, even if its heir had recently absconded with his eldest daughters.

Ah, politics. Sylvain would never get tired of playing these cards - of twisting these knives, just as they’d been twisted in him. But he wouldn’t get to really savor this particular play; just as the lords were settling into a truce, three shadows darkened the Grand Hall’s front threshold.

He - and everyone else gathered, he’d wager - had expected the new arrivals to be the three major players currently missing from their assembly: Dimitri, Rufus, and Rodrigue. Instead, to his delighted surprise, Sylvain recognized the familiar silhouettes of Ingrid, Felix, and Ashe.

As an official representative of the Gautier margravate, he couldn’t break formation to greet them. All he could do was bounce a little on his heels and give a small wave as they passed, but his friends either didn’t notice or didn’t acknowledge him. They proceeded, uniformly stone-faced, to the petitioners’ stand before the royal dais without hailing anyone else in the room.

At once the tense atmosphere among the lords dissipated as they, one by one, became certain of this unconventional meeting’s purpose. But Sylvain wasn’t so sure.

His friends’ behavior was a bit odd; he’d expect Ingrid and Ashe to follow protocol in the castle, but Felix was usually more relaxed. Right now he looked just as professional as the other two, straight-backed and silent at military attention.

No, not professional, Sylvain realized with a start. Felix’s straight back was actually rigid. Brittle. His right arm twitched subtly toward his belt; his head and dominant leg were angled away, like he was itching to draw his sword and bolt from the hall. 

And Ingrid’s position, too - as the leader of their unit, she should be out front, but she and Ashe flanked Felix to either side. Caging him in.

It wasn’t just a quirk, then. Felix _did_ want to bolt. But why? The man might be independent and stubborn to a fault, but he’d never abandon his unit, even for something as trivial as a debrief - and their demeanors were far too severe to blame on deployment fatigue.

Sylvain fidgeted in place, wishing he could just call out to his friends and clear all this up without breaking a dozen traditions. He glanced down the lordly line; most eyes were still glued to the doors, unaware of any oddities in the knights. The exception, understandably, was Count Galatea, whose visible pride in his daughter seemed to outweigh any doubts about her fellows’ behavior.

Next to stride in was Rufus, though he caused less of a stirring amongst the lords. Regent he may have been, but no royal congregations commenced in Castle Blaiddyd without Dimitri - and everyone knew it, sparing Rufus no more than a deferential nod as he ascended the dais to sit the central throne.

Noteworthy, however, was his reaction to the occupants of the petitioners’ stand; he looked them over with as much confusion as Sylvain and the others had, suggesting that he, like them, had no clue what was going on. 

In the ensuing silence, Sylvain finally pinpointed what was so wrong with this atmosphere: it was the silence, itself. No herald stood inside the double doors to announce new entries by rank, and that - that was quite interesting, indeed. Even the most rushed assemblies of the inner court were heralded...unless the content was so secretive as to preclude servants.

The following five minutes proved his theory correct. None of the regent’s clucking hens - Rufus called them _attendants_ \- showed up, nor did any aides to the other lords, or scribes to record the prince’s words. Those present registered this, and darkened accordingly, in a slow-spreading wave of understanding.

Nothing heard today would be routine. Nothing spoken today would leave the hall.

While Sylvain was digesting this, Lord Seteth and Lady Rhea made their entrance. By itself, that was fairly normal; they stood on equal footing with the lords and the crown respectively, and made regular contributions to national policy.

What drew him in, though, were the stragglers trickling in behind them: first came Mercedes and Annette, but they weren’t the weird part. Sylvain skimmed over them to the group in the back, all bowed heads and empty sheaths and dressed strikingly Leicesterian. 

Yes, there was Lady Marianne von Edmund at the head of the entourage, shuffling quietly like she could avoid notice by taking up as little space as possible. He’d heard about the delegation’s arrival - something about that insufferable bridge business he’d worked on with Dimitri and Lady Byleth.

 _Wait_ , Sylvain thought, retracing his focus to Mercedes and Annette and studying them more closely. Annette walked with a subtle limp, and anyway, weren’t those two supposed to be at the monastery today with -

And wasn’t Lady Marianne invited here on behalf of -

His eyes snapped back to where Lady Rhea, stoic and regal but _pale_ , assumed the throne to Rufus’s left, and Lord Seteth joined the knights at the petitioners’ stand. Seteth in particular radiated anxiety with every jerky movement, and Mercedes seemed to be keeping as close an eye on him as Ingrid was keeping on Felix.

Where, exactly, was Lady Byleth? Her absence made Sylvain shift uncomfortably on his feet. Why would her peers and companions come here without her? Had something happened at Garreg Mach?

He tried to tell himself that everything was fine, that Lady Byleth was probably in Dimitri’s company, but that explanation rang hollowly in his mind when he caught sight of Felix and Seteth again - taut as bowstrings, the both of them, and at least the latter of the two never showed such pent-up aggression without reason.

When Dimitri appeared in the doorway alongside Knight-Captain Jeralt, Sylvain let go of any remaining tatters of hope. Both men were haggard and frowning, assuming their posts - Dimitri on the dais to Rufus’s right, Jeralt with his knights - silently and without fanfare.

Dimitri in particular, even though Sylvain had seen him in fine spirits just yesterday, looked as though he’d been riding all night; he wore the same clothing, except now sporting dirt and scuff marks, and his hair was loose and unkempt.

He probably _had_ been riding all night. A rough timeline was taking shape inside Sylvain’s mind, one that started with the signal fire they’d received from Charon the previous morning. Dimitri’s appearance suggested he’d ridden out to meet Jeralt personally, and then immediately turned and made a sprint back to the city. 

But why?

Moreover, why was Ingrid’s unit with them? As far as Sylvain knew, they were still supposed to be in the Oghma foothills for at least another week. 

Dimitri sank onto his throne, weighted with an invisible yoke that pulled down his usually-squared shoulders. He raised a hand and some unseen guardsmen closed both entrances; four massive doors slammed at once, filling the chamber with their sharp echoes.

As they faded, nothing took their place. Quiet settled back over the hall as those assembled waited for their prince to initiate the meeting, but Dimitri hesitated. His one good eye, weary but sharp, scanned over everyone individually. Methodically. It reminded Sylvain of military formation checks - when a superior inspected their subordinates for any sign of infraction.

Finally, when he reached Jeralt, Dimitri gave a small, resigned nod and drew a shaky breath.

“I must deliver to you all a piece of dire news. I ask that you restrain yourselves - and that you do not repeat what I am about to say under any circumstances.”

Sylvain’s heart rate, which before had sat at an uncertain but steady trot, kicked into full gallop at his friend’s grave tone. Some of his fellow lords glanced to each other, confused, but no one at the petitioners’ stand reacted at all.

They already knew.

“Two hours ago, an unknown assailant kidnapped two divine vessels - the Holy Maiden and Lady Flayn - from Garreg Mach Monastery.” Dimitri’s voice wavered; on Rufus’s other side, Lady Rhea’s face crumbled ever so slightly.

A chorus of shocked murmurs rose from the lords, Sylvain among them. A thousand questions raced through his mind, but a dominant one pushed aside all others:

“How?”

Sylvain didn’t realize that he, himself, had been the one to ask until Dimitri turned to address him; his voice had been too thin, too numb. Too stripped of persona and pretense.

“That is what we’re here to determine,” Dimitri intoned. Sylvain caught the dangerous glint in his eye and had no doubt that, depending on what was unearthed, this fact-finding assembly could turn into an execution at a moment’s notice. 

Suddenly the closed doors gained darker connotations.

“How in the world did an _unknown assailant_ get inside the monastery?” Count Charon asked, aghast and holding a hand to his heart. “From whence did they come, and where have they gone?”

“We should be gathering the army,” Count Rowe suggested gruffly, “instead of standing around and speculating!”

Some of the more minor lords toward the end of the line piped up to defend one or the other viewpoint, while Count Galatea remained wisely silent, his attention trained on Ingrid.

Similarly, Sylvain watched Felix - watched how his friend’s tight expression, his tenuous patience, curdled further with each passing second.

“I will have silence!” Dimitri demanded, a rare instance of his raised voice booming over all the others. A hush fell over the Hall; one of his hands, rested stiffly on the arm of his throne, curled into a fist. “Two high officials of this country have been taken. I will repeat myself only once: _restrain_ yourselves.”

He leaned forward, legs braced, like he really might leap out and subdue the next person that talked. No one did.

Satisfied, he beckoned to those gathered at the petitioners’ stand. “Ser Dominic. Lady Martritz. Present your accounts, please.”

Mercedes, holding Annette around the waist, turned to address the court - and Sylvain finally caught the reason Annette had been limping. A jagged, diagonal gash split her jacket from navel to hip, and fresh white bandages showed through underneath. Dried blood stained her riding trousers rust-red all the way to her boots.

Unbidden (and understandably), Ashe rushed to support his fiancee’s other side, whispering something quiet and soothing into her ear and assuming most of her weight with his shoulder.

Annette sank against him, Mercedes nodded gratefully, and then the two proceeded to recount a tale so unbelievable that Sylvain questioned if he’d heard it right - until Seteth stepped up and said the same things:

A snowy morning in the monastery gardens; the Leicester delegation’s arrival; a knight in black armor that appeared out of nowhere. A grim, quick fight. Lady Byleth and Lady Flayn, kidnapped in the blink of an eye.

When the speakers finished their story, Dimitri flicked his wrist in the lords’ direction - a tacit reversal of his earlier order for silence.

Sylvain seized upon the opportunity to exploit House Gautier’s place in the hierarchy and promptly asked, “They _vanished_?”

“Yes.” Annette pressed her stomach wound as if re-living its infliction. “There was this-” she frowned, looking to Seteth for assistance, “-fog. It was purple and - and _glowing_. When it cleared, they were all just...gone.”

Seteth nodded sharply. “It was a type of magic we have encountered before.”

No one required clarification on that point; everyone here had read Felix’s report on the initial attack by, and subsequent disappearance of, the mysterious ‘Tomas.’

“We can assume they gained access to the monastery in the same manner,” Seteth continued in a voice much more controlled than his body language. “Lord Fraldarius and his men have since secured the grounds; there were no other easy means of ingress.”

“But how did a fully armed and armored knight even get close to Garreg Mach without being seen?” Count Rowe asked, tapping his cane for emphasis. “Our scouts are not so useless as that.”

He leveled a stern-eyed stare at Seteth, only moderately shaken from his earlier ire. “Unless, Lord Seteth, you’re suggesting this person can appear and disappear at will across vast distances? How could we defend against such a foe, or locate them?”

“I can answer some of that.”

Jeralt stepped up and bowed low to the thrones (Dimitri accepted it with a tired smile, while Rufus looked tongue-tied and Rhea remained stiff and unyielding as stone), then stood next to Seteth and the other presenters.

“My men and I have been tracking this guy for over a moon, since he crossed into Kingdom territory from Arundel.” He held up a hand preemptively, like he could sense the incoming slew of questions. “Yes, he’s likely from the Empire, and yes, he’s likely to return.”

Jeralt, on the surface, seemed more put together than Felix and Seteth combined. That wasn’t so surprising, though; the knight-captain endured situations like this fairly regularly, and his position demanded a constant even keel.

But for all his poise, Sylvain saw the fire beneath: the quiver to his mouth, the white-knuckled grip of fingers on elbows when he crossed his arms. The simmering desperation of a father whose only child was missing.

And on _that_ note, Rhea’s faux-tranquility wasn’t fooling him, either.

“International political abduction law clearly grants us permission to enter Adrestia!” Count Charon protested. “Lord Rowe is correct; we should gather the army!”

Gently, Count Galatea added, “It will take weeks to get word to Enbarr and receive the emperor’s blessing. A two hundred year old law meant for ransoming will not shield us from a - ah, _reaction_ at the border until then.”

“That is correct,” Seteth said curtly. “No matter what legality we bring with us, a Kingdom fighting force is unlikely to be welcome. Regarding the assailant’s magic - Knight-Captain?”

Jeralt grunted. “Yeah. The way he moved while we were hunting him, it was like he could jump away whenever he wanted. We couldn’t figure out _how_ he kept evading us - and surely, if he were capable, he would’ve gone farther ahead. We got pretty close to catching him more than once.”

“Indeed,” Seteth picked up again, “therefore, we have concluded that this ‘jumping’ magic can only be utilized over short distances. Such a limitation would conform to existing understanding of spiritual taxation.”

The unfamiliar terminology quieted the lords, and Sylvain, too, had to chew on it. He, and they, were unused to such metaphysical obstacles.

“So - he can’t go very far at once?” Count Rowe asked, audibly frustrated at the borders of his own knowledge. “Good. We should mobilize all the territories’ scouts immediately and strike out at the first report - Adrestia’s borders be damned.”

All the way at the end of the line (and the hierarchy), the young Viscount Kleiman piped up for the first time. His voice, though not overly loud or assertive, cut through Count Rowe’s brash timbre.

“Are you certain the kidnapper is returning to the Empire?” 

He pointed a thin finger at the Leicester delegation. “You must admit that the overlap between their arrival and the abduction was...coincidental.”

Lady Marianne, who had, up until this point, been standing quietly at her group’s helm, lifted her chin and clasped her hands in the exact sort of genteel indignation Sylvain would expect from a lady of her birth. 

“Her Grace Lady Byleth invited us here _personally_ ,” she declared in an airy but firm tone, and it wavered only the tiniest amount - a marked improvement over the shrinking daisy of rumor. “If you would accuse me, please do so with evidence!”

Quickly, she ducked her head again, as if horrified by her own gall.

Ah, and _there_ was the woman Sylvain had heard so much about: Margrave Edmund’s only daughter, a promising orator struggling with deep-set insecurities. But apparently not so deep that she couldn’t defend herself in a foreign throne room.

The man next to her, a young, bespectacled knight bearing the crest of House Gloucester, took a more imposing stance at the viscount’s words - though he had to visibly rally his courage beforehand. “My lady would never harm the Church! Just what are you implying, my lord?”

“Hold,” Dimitri commanded, and all parties obeyed at once. He acknowledged Lady Marianne with a nod and a faint smile, then gestured out over the court.

“Lord Kleiman, if you have a _substantiated_ claim against our guests, then please, by all means, present it to me.” 

He waited a short but brutal interval, in which there came not even a peep from the back of the line, all the while regarding Viscount Kleiman with a withering stare. This was an old tactic of the prince’s: to speak little and let the reality of his opponents’ positions do the real talking.

Indeed, the gravity of the situation only fermented as the seconds slipped by, dragging down the viscount’s credibility with nary a verbalized challenge.

“- And if not,” Dimitri continued after the lapse, “then I would caution my lords to be more discerning with their suspicions.”

Seteth cleared his throat. “Additionally, the Archbishop and I have already confirmed Lady Marianne’s intentions via augury.” His voice was clipped and condescending, like he was explaining something obvious to a child. “We did so immediately following the abduction, in fact, as _time_ is _crucial_.”

He also waited a few moments for a rebuttal, but it seemed that the viscount was well and truly cowed. With a low hum of finality, he turned back to the throne.

“As for the kidnapper’s heading, Lady Rhea and I have a preliminary determination in the direction of Adrestia - but it will take many days to narrow the geographic possibilities, Your Highness.”

Dimitri bobbed his head. “Then we should make for the general area as soon as possible.”

“- Pardon, but the threat of retaliation remains,” Count Galatea offered. “We simply cannot send armed Kingdom knights across the border without the emperor’s permission!”

The same debate from earlier struck up again like dry tinder, the court having apparently learned nothing from Dimitri’s earlier outburst. This time, though, he remained quiet and let them field various ideas:

“Send a small force with a copy of the relevant laws,” suggested Count Charon.

“They won’t be able to cover a wide enough area,” Count Rowe objected. “Send a group of diplomats ahead of the army to convince Lord Arundel.”

Sylvain stroked his chin at that one; it was far less heavy-handed than House Rowe’s usual tactics. He did some quick mental calculations, then chipped in, “With a head start, Gautier riders could reach Enbarr in nine days.”

The bustle died down; the court, it seemed, was collectively considering the daunting prospect of feeding, clothing, and housing a large search force with little forewarning. It would be a stretch for most territories, especially in the dead of winter.

Then a new voice spoke up - harsh, impatient, and entirely unexpected.

“Send knights under the Church’s banner,” Felix addressed Dimitri directly, informally, like no one else was present, “instead of the Kingdom’s.”

Immediately, Count Rowe brought his cane down hard on the stone floor. “Lord Felix! You will remain silent unless called upon!”

He was right, technically. Only heads of House and their appointed stand-ins could volunteer speech in the throne room. The rule was not often enforced, as evidenced in Lady Marianne’s earlier uncontested defense, but Felix tended to strike nerves in the older lords - and frequently.

Sylvain wanted to laugh when Felix cut him a pointed glance - but didn’t, because this was no laughing matter and Sylvain would definitely get in trouble for it. Instead he shot back a look that - with a single twitch of a cheek muscle - managed to sum up two decades spent shouldering this social burden.

“In Lord Fraldarius’s absence, Lord Felix should speak for his House,” Sylvain announced with practiced ease. In all likelihood, Felix had something valuable to say but no patience or drive to say it _normally_.

Luckily, Dimitri knew this dance well and could also interpret their friend’s brusque mannerisms. He waved a hand toward the only vacant spot to Sylvain’s left; House Fraldarius’s place in the court hierarchy.

“I agree. Lord Felix, please describe this idea of yours.”

Some of the older lords grumbled quietly but didn’t challenge their prince’s decision. Felix arched an eyebrow at the spot Dimitri had indicated, considered it a moment, then remained exactly where he was.

“If the knights were tied to the Church and not the crown, then it’d be _easier to search_ ,” Felix explained simply, regarding Dimitri with exasperation - like he should already understand this.

Without any kind of communication beforehand, Ingrid tilted her head a fraction of a degree and shared a _look_ with Sylvain that expressed itself perfectly: _we need to back him up_.

 _Oh, I’m way ahead of you_ , Sylvain shot back with another not-quite-smirk.

“Are you suggesting I split the royal knights?” Dimitri asked with a numb sort of shock that was reflected in most of the court.

And Rhea.

“Obviously,” Felix said.

At the same time, Rhea jolted out of her initial reaction and announced, “Absolutely not!”

Once more the room fell silent around an authoritative proclamation, but it was a new sort of confusion this time - one that hadn’t expected the Archbishop to actually contribute.

It made sense to Sylvain, though, that _this_ topic would break Rhea’s composure. She was, historically, the staunchest defender of the Church’s independence from Kingdom oversight.

“Lady Rhea, I implore you to hear the entire proposition before -” Dimitri attempted to negotiate, but Felix cut him off.

“Why? Because of tradition?” he demanded, staring down Rhea like she just broke his favorite sword. His bold, irreverent voice made Sylvain wince; no matter the content of his argument, he constantly undermined himself with that relentless brutality.

“Lady Byleth is missing in foreign territory! We don’t have time for _propriety_.” He spit the word like fire and turned toward the lords, but before he could say anything else, Ingrid interrupted him with a loud and unsubtle stage cough.

“- Ahem!”

She wordlessly petitioned her father for permission to speak, which Count Galatea granted with a fond, indulgent nod.

“My lords,” she began, offering them a military salute. “I believe what Lord Felix _means_ -” her tone, there, sharpened like a warning, “- is that this proposition has a historical basis. Did not the Knights of Seiros personally guard the Prophet at the Battle of Tailtean?”

 _Damn_ . An appeal to (distant) tradition _and_ a religious reference - what a powerful move. He watched mollification spread down the line like a refreshing breeze; what the lords wanted, after all, was not a _perfect_ solution, but one that aligned with their legal and moral sensibilities.

Sylvain added smoothly, “ _And_ , did not those same knights follow Saint Seiros freely across the continent, for their covenant was with no leader but the Goddess Herself?”

The implied meaning was clear, he thought: these proposed knights would be beholden to Lady Byleth, and what official protection detail _wouldn’t_ go to great lengths to get their leader back? That same air of peaceful reconciliation passed through Dimitri, then Seteth - but it stopped abruptly right at the Archbishop’s feet.

She and Felix were glowering at each other - the latter full-on and seething, the former as much as she ever showed emotion - and Sylvain’s estimation of their chances plummeted.

“I would remind the court,” Rhea said, icicles hanging off her words, “that Emperor Wilhelm later _disbanded_ the Knights so that the fledgling Church could not bear arms against its ally. And that Saint Seiros wholeheartedly agreed, lest her flock be tempted to violence.”

Sylvain felt that like a punch to the gut. There was still some argument here, he thought, that involved answering to a higher power than the laws of man - but he’d be presenting this to an emissary of that higher power, so he’d need to be delicate -

In the midst of his planning, Felix scoffed.

“Then they were both idiots,” he snapped. “What’s the point of claiming an alliance if you’re not willing and able to protect it?”

Beside him, Jeralt put out a hand as if to warn his young knight, and surprisingly - in a move that would never have worked for Rodrigue in a thousand years - Felix _relented_.

Meanwhile, Seteth flashed the both of them a thin-lipped, disbelieving glare and stepped toward the dais. “Lady Rhea, please,” he entreated, perhaps in an attempt to distract her from Felix’s flagrant disrespect.

 _Smart man_.

“A terrible act of violence has already been thrust upon us, through no fault or desire of ours.” Seteth’s voice was near cracking, and it sobered Sylvain up instantly. He couldn’t forget that the divine vessels had just lost two members of their little family.

“I believe this idea has merit. Will you not consider it?” Seteth moved up the dais steps as far as he dared. “For _their_ sakes.”

Rhea looked upon him for a long breath, her cold obstinacy morphing to sympathy and then to a deep, bleak sorrow. She faced Dimitri (across a petrified Rufus, who retreated from her cone of sight like a deer might from a wolf’s) and gave him her blessing in the form of a barely perceptible nod.

Dimitri returned it decisively.

“I thank you for your counsel, my lords,” he said, projecting his voice to dissuade further discussion. “Our path forward is clear.”

He stood from his throne, signaling the start of a royal decree.

“We, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, shall send a search force of knights into Adrestia with the aim of locating and retrieving Lady Byleth and Lady Flayn. In accordance with my wise advisors, this force will not exceed fifty combatants. They will carry relevant documentation and secure Lord Volkhard von Arundel’s cooperation upon crossing into his lands.”

Sylvain stopped himself from rolling his eyes. This sort of appeasement was necessary, he knew - and Counts Galatea, Charon, and Rowe _did_ look pleased that their opinions were included - but it still felt like a huge waste of time.

Judging by the sour frown on Felix’s face, he probably agreed.

Dimitri looked next to the group at the petitioners’ stand; here was the part of the decree that really mattered.

“I call upon Lord Seteth, Twelfth Divine Vessel of Saint Cichol, to lead this force. Do you accept?”

Seteth’s conflicted elation probably mirrored Sylvain’s own. Not since King Loog’s time had a sovereign directly appointed a position within the Church - but that was three thousand years ago, Sylvain reasoned. Maybe they were overdue for some change.

“I do, Your Highness,” Seteth said, avoiding Rhea’s emerald-hard eyes as he climbed the stairs and knelt before the _right_ throne, not the left, for the first time in his long tenure. 

Usually at an appointment like this, the recipient would present their weapon, symbolically showing their willingness to defend their patron. Since Church officials carried no weapons, however, Seteth solemnly removed his augur spike and lifted it on an upturned palm.

Dimitri accepted it gingerly and held it high; the spike’s entwined panels of silver and gold gleamed in his hand. “Then I name you Knight-Captain of the Holy Knights of Sothis, who shall stand peer to my Royal Knights in privilege and prestige. I grant you free reign over enlistment and command, and your only superior shall be the Goddess Herself until such a time as you return.”

Seteth rose and, without a sound, accepted his augur spike back and draped it around his neck. He grasped it, mouthing a prayer, then let it drop to his chest.

“I thank you, Your Highness, and will carry out this sacred duty to my utmost ability.” He minced no words and lost not another moment, descending the dais at a rapid but proper speed.

“To any who would join these Holy Knights,” he called out to the court, “secure your superiors’ leave and meet me at Garreg Mach. We ride within the week.”

He strode right past the petitioners’ stand, heading for the exit like he planned to power walk all the way back to the monastery (and, knowing Seteth’s conviction, he might). 

This left the remainder of the court, slowly thawing from the shock of social progress, to converse in low tones with Dimitri over the usual tedium of procurement: supply lines, food and clothing sources, and the like. 

Meanwhile Jeralt gathered his knights together in the back of the hall with nothing more than a look. When Sylvain had finally detached himself from the line, everyone was already present - and Felix was inching toward the doors.

“Listen up,” Jeralt said, crossing his arms. “I can’t go. Someone needs to stay and defend the capital, and Margrave Gautier’s not up to it. No offense.”

Sylvain shrugged amiably. “No, you’re right.”

“As much as I want to get my hands around that slimy bastard’s neck, you’ll have to do it for me. Understood?”

“Understood,” Felix confirmed darkly. He flicked his eyes over each other knight present - as if to say _you’d better be coming, too_ \- and then departed at a similar pace to Seteth’s.

Jeralt watched him go with a haggard sigh. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything too reckless,” he told the rest of them. “And bring my daughter home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viscount kleiman: yellow sus


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! happy early turkey day - and if you're celebrating it, please stay safe!
> 
> ****CHAPTER CWS: needles and body horror (it's mild like last time)****

Byleth awoke in the dark, gasping around a vice-grip at her throat. _Cold_ , she remembered. _Metal_ . And _red_.

Her hands shot up to pry away black iron fingers, but they met no resistance; she felt all up and down her neck in a panic, but - save for five stinging welts - her skin was bare of any obstruction. With the illusion broken, the phantom pressure gradually receded to a dull, bruising ache. She swallowed thickly around it.

The darkness remained, however. It filled in the space all around her like deep water, weighty and absolute. After almost a minute of blinking, she could still only make out vague shapes in her vicinity: the boxy dimensions of an elevated bed on which she rested, a table next to it, and what might have been a dresser across a bare floor. A rounded door - the only exit - stood open, impenetrably shadowed beyond its threshold. 

No sign of the skull-faced knight, but no sign of her friends, either.

Byleth took a labored breath of still, damp air. It smelled musty and old like the archives, but she’d never seen a sleeping chamber like this anywhere beneath Garreg Mach. Carefully, she felt for the edges of her mattress, sliding her fingers over soft and plentiful blankets; whatever had happened, wherever she was, someone had wanted her to be comfortable.

Her outer layers had been removed, though, leaving her in only her training robes, and that bereavement dampened her outlook. A member of the faithful would never have taken her hair drape and veil - so, while this person or people may have provided material comforts, they either didn’t understand or didn’t respect Seirosian traditions.

And so this place and its masters were not Church affiliated; and so she had, indeed, been taken from the garden by that strange assailant.

The revelation should have scared her. She could be anywhere in the world, with anyone as her captors, with any number of dangers between herself and home. Those chaotic thoughts _were_ swirling around in her head, but they were muted - distant - drowned out by a raging current of adrenaline and determination.

So what if she was far from Garreg Mach? So what if she’d seen nothing of the world outside Fhirdiad? So what if this dank underground chamber was eerily reminiscent of a prison cell? She could get home. Sothis would guide her home.

She _would_ get home.

Byleth lowered herself from the bed in increments, shivering when her thin-slippered feet (for her winter boots, too, were missing) met a smooth, cold floor. Thankfully, after a quick and cautious series of stretches, her body seemed uninjured aside from the shallow scrapes at her neck. 

_Okay_ , she thought, rubbing her hands together for the invigorating friction. Points of order: find out what happened, discover her current location, and then get back to the monastery. Small list. Three items. She could do this.

Thus vitalized, she sparked her inner flame for direction, but what came out wasn’t the usual healthy blue blaze - or even the dim, weak one of recent memory, born of exhaustion and overexertion. This flame could barely be called so; it could barely be called ‘holy.’ Grayish fire licked up her arms but no farther, not strong enough to outline her entirely, and cast around her feet a small ring of sickly monochrome light.

She turned her hands over in shock, hoping irrationally to see a normal vibrant blue on her palms, but it was just more dull, flickering silver. Nothing had ever suppressed her power to this degree; what was going on?

But no, she had to focus. Though unusual, her flame still provided faint, washed-out illumination, and she held up a hand to diffuse it farther. From that expanded ring sprang some of the chamber’s finer details: the black, textureless stone that lined every surface, the sparse furniture carved from that same material - and a man.

Byleth fell back against the bed frame. Before, in the dark, she’d assumed that he was the door - opened inward and flat against the wall - but now she could see that he merely emulated that tall, rounded form with a hunched back and shapeless robes.

At her notice, he peeled off the wall like a shadow given substance. He moved like one, too, lurching and looming across the room, seeming to stretch upward the closer he got. 

Pathetic gray flame was all she could draw at the moment, but Byleth still raised her fists and prepared to wield it defensively. She braced her feet on the stone, her lower back against the edge of the mattress behind her; if she could rush him at the midsection, she thought, she might be able to flip him over her head and make a break for it -

\- but then the figure reached midsection-rushing distance and she locked up. Not because she’d lost her nerve - Byleth Eisner would _never_ \- but because the shadow-man, bent and hooded in a garment of solid ink, had entered her ring of brighter light. It fell, colorless, upon a face as pale and wrinkled as a corpse’s; one of his eyes bulged out of his head, its sclera completely blackened and the surrounding skin covered in geometric markings, but the other one was narrow, curved in amusement - and familiar.

“Tomas,” Byleth whispered, mouthing the word with only the barest force of air behind it.

He chuckled, thin lips cracking into a vicious grin.

“Solon,” he corrected in a harsh, hissing voice. The pupil of his narrow eye - but not the protruding one - took in her weakened state, settling on her fists. “Save your strength, Fell Star. You _will_ need it.”

Immediately after speaking, Tomas - _Solon_ \- turned and drifted to the doorway, apparently unconcerned about showing his back to her.

That disregard - the mutual knowledge that she posed no current threat to him - stung more than his sudden reappearance or the red welts on her neck. She was toothless here, physically and spiritually; the sickly flame flickered alarmingly with each breath she took, and far down in her fathomless soul-well, Sothis barely stirred to stoke it.

“What did you do to me?” she very nearly growled, unwilling to let her power die down completely. Without light, he’d just be another vague shape again - and she had a creeping suspicion that darkness didn’t impair her captor’s vision at all. 

Solon merely stared over his shoulder at her, that permanent amusement etched into his deep wrinkles, and then continued out into the hall.

Byleth followed, because of course she did. She wasn’t about to let him get away without an answer, and he _knew_ that, damn him. She could just sense that he knew. That he was taunting her without words.

The corridor, lowly illuminated by her raised hands, looked to be made of that same black, stonelike material that had coated the previous chamber. It was cool to the touch, textureless and lustrous like a sheet of metal, and it shimmered with specks of reflective violet under her pale light.

Solon made no sound as he moved, emphasizing the rustling shuffle of Byleth’s own feet by comparison. She wondered if he was even walking beneath his heavy robe, or if his strange magic somehow allowed him to hover. (And would that alter the force she’d require to tackle him when her strength inevitably returned?)

He chuckled, as if he could see into her thoughts, and entered the room directly adjacent to the one they’d left. He then stepped to the side and flicked his wrist - his left wrist, Byleth noticed with a smug twinge of pride in Felix; during their first encounter, when he’d still been capable of such, ‘Tomas’ had shown himself right-handed - inward, inviting her to precede him.

She considered it a moment, hesitating at the threshold. If he’d wanted to kill her, she would be dead. Without question. This observation on his part, this enigmatic direction, meant that he wanted something - meant she still had a chance to escape.

So she entered the chamber, stepping warily around Solon and mentally preparing herself for whatever she might find within.

Her dim silvery flame revealed a replica of the first room’s furniture layout, complete with a luxuriously out-of-place bed and the indistinct form of a person lying atop it. But the mirror wasn’t exact; this person’s arms and legs were affixed to the stone-metal bed frame with long chains, and _their_ hair was a thicker, darker green than her own.

Despite her fatigue and without a single further thought, Byleth crossed the room in a few hurried strides. Her mental tap of increasingly improbable escape plans squeaked shut, replaced by a single, urgent motivation to get Flayn to safety.

Gray light washed over the bed with her proximity, detailing the heavy bindings which tied her friend down. They looked like they had some leeway; if Flayn wished, and if she were conscious, she could probably drag them halfway to the door.

But she had no such capability now. Flayn laid on her back, nestled amid the same plush blankets and pillows from the other chamber, eyes closed and breath even. If not for the heavy manacles at her wrists - underneath which peeked out blooming purple-and-red abrasions - she might have been sleeping in her own bed at the monastery, serene and still.

Byleth put one hand to Flayn’s forehead and the other over her heart, pulsing divine power through them in a simple diagnostic maneuver. For a moment, she worried that her flames were too weak for a successful reading - but then they flickered pale blue, sparking with Flayn’s own magic. 

The answering pulse carried with it everything Byleth needed to know; Flayn’s inner flame had been suppressed, too, to the point of unconsciousness, but she bore no severe wounds otherwise. Byleth let out an unsteady breath at the news, her shoulders sagging in relief and exhaustion.

“Now, now,” Solon’s voice hissed directly behind her. “I really must insist that you conserve yourself. We have work yet to do.”

She stared bleakly down at Flayn, at the even rise and fall of her chest and the bruises at her wrists, as the reasons behind her captor’s behavior crystallized. His confidence, his mild mannerisms, had all spoken to a secure authority - and here it was, in repose. Living insurance.

 _Why did you come?_ she lamented, trailing a finger through Flayn’s hair. _You had no weapon, no_ plan _._ But the answer was obvious, for it was the same thing Byleth would have done, were their positions reversed. Try.

She turned reluctantly away, leaving her warmth and weakness there on the bed next to Flayn. She divested herself of it in the same manner she’d strip off Bel’s lake clothes: methodically, purposefully, and without sentiment. 

In its place, she donned the impassive mask of the Holy Maiden. Lady Byleth could treat with this creature. Lady Byleth could handle whatever he had planned, could absorb it like a sturdy shield taking a blow.

“What work?” she asked simply, folding her arms inside her sleeves and facing Solon head on.

His mismatched eyes - one bulbous and glassy, one crinkled in good humor - peered back, unblinking. “Decisive. Such has always been your virtue, Fell Star.” In much the same fashion as Cornelia had, he reached into his robe and produced a remarkably similar strip of rolled-up leather.

Byleth watched closely as he laid it out on a nearby piece of furniture. Instead of surgical tools, this kit contained three glass-and-steel syringes, their needles long and foreboding.

When he was sufficiently absorbed in his task, she prodded, “Why do you call me that?”

 _Fell Star_. The first time he’d said it, and now, again, Sothis had shifted like a great, displeased eel around Byleth’s inner flame, tightening like She needed to protect the sanctum itself.

Solon raised his deathly pale face; the black markings around his bulging eye gleamed silver in his ascent, and she realized that they were not tattoos, but more of that strange stone-metal that covered most surfaces here.

“Because that is what you are - or, rather, what you _were_ ,” he replied, spitting the final word with the only touch of derision he’d shown thus far. “Before you scattered your divinity through the vile prism of humanity.”

Ah. He spoke of the Goddess - of Sothis’s choice to entwine with the spirits of Her bloodline. Byleth had never heard it referenced so disdainfully, or so personally, as if Solon himself had seen it firsthand.

“Now,” he continued, nodding to the toolkit, “oblige me, will you?”

She picked up a syringe without hesitation or need for instruction; this, like her augur spike, was a tool with limited uses. Straightening her left arm, she rolled up its sleeve and positioned the cold surgical steel against her skin.

The needle went in smoothly, biting far deeper than a spike. Byleth pulled the plunger and winced at the initial drag - sharp. Impersonal. Absent the careful guidance of the Goddess. 

Gradually, the glass tube filled up red, warming her fingers where they grasped it. When it was done, she estimated that it had siphoned about three oracles’ worth of blood. If she were hale and well-rested, that amount would barely affect her, but now it had her swaying on her feet.

“Put it there,” Solon said, indicating its original place, and Byleth happily obeyed. He then bent his left arm straight up, letting his wide sleeve fall to the elbow, and held it out to her, “and fill the remaining two with mine.”

The benefit of her mask, the competent impassivity of the Holy Maiden, was that she could follow the will of another smoothly and without complaint; the cost, however, was a wall between herself and her actions. A latency of movement to thought.

This sluggish transference had her frozen, hand hovering over a syringe, as Solon’s intent finally dawned on her. She looked up, confused, and was met with the moderately less shriveled twin of the arm she’d seen mutilated just yesterday.

( _Yesterday?_ she contemplated. _Two days ago? A week?_ How long had she been sleeping? There were no windows or clocks in this place.)

Before she could ask the obvious question, Solon raised his other arm - or what was left of it - and waved the neatly-wrapped stump around as if in greeting.

“I cannot very well do it myself, can I?” He punctuated his words with an ironic humor that his narrow eye echoed - but his bulging one was tightened in contained fury.

Byleth, not wanting to risk his ire without an exit strategy, hastily complied. She maintained a neutral expression as the needle sunk easily into a raised, darkened vein and the tube filled up with viscous maroon. This time, the glass’s temperature retained its mild chill, unaffected by the liquid inside.

All the while, Solon watched her with that same asymmetrical malice-mirth, again giving her the impression that he could see inside her mind, past the blank mask and to the horrified revulsion beyond - and that he enjoyed it.

Just when she had finished the last syringe and laid it carefully with the others, a low hum filled the chamber. It seemed to originate from everywhere at once, reverberating as if some unseen hammer had stricken all of the stone-metal surface. Veins of iridescent violet, bright and glittering like precious ore, bloomed across the walls in time with the hum. 

Byleth braced herself and looked to Solon for his reaction - was this normal, she wondered, or had an escape opportunity presented itself far earlier than she’d expected? - but he only stood there, grinning up at the ceiling in an expression made garish by the saturated light.

The pupil of his bulbous eye snapped down to her. He turned his left arm over, showing a glistening rectangular area of flayed flesh that pulsed along with the hum and the glow; inside was a mass of dark blood and muscle, sizzling like it was aflame.

She forced herself to merely observe, to deprive him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. If he hoped to break her through grotesqueries, he’d have to try much harder than this; the sight of blood in all stages of manipulation had ceased to bother her at the age of twelve.

“It seems they are searching for you,” he commented idly. “Oh, how disappointing for dear Seiros and Cichol that their fervent prayers shall go unanswered.”

The hum died down, and with it the rippling patterns on the walls. Solon’s injury calmed itself as well, trickling thickened blood from one of its four perfectly cut corners.

Byleth raised her chin, refusing to take the bait even though she burned with curiosity. What sort of magic was that? What did he mean by ‘unanswered?’ Why had he harmed himself in such a way?

Instead, she turned her head calmly back to the leather toolkit and asked, “Do you require anything else of me?”

Solon’s wide grin disappeared. He lowered his arm, hiding the wound once more with his sleeve, and curtly swiped the syringe that contained Byleth’s blood. He used it to point to the two others.

“Inject yourself with one, and sweet Cethleann with the other. Do not fret,” he added, noting his captive’s shock with a shadow of his previous glee. “It will merely sedate your parasitic spirits. Nothing more.”

She swallowed hard. The thought of hosting that acidic black blood, which had wounded her to the point of visions before, made her stomach roll.

“ _Nothing_ more?” she emphasized doubtfully.

Solon rasped out a grating laugh. “Nothing more than you can endure, Fell Star.”

The red syringe disappeared into his layered robe. “I will gather you once daily for this task. If you remain -” his bulging eye strayed to Flayn, “- _cooperative_ , then you may roam these halls freely and unbound.”

 _And nothing need befall her_ , that voidlike pupil implied as it slid meaningfully back to Byleth.

He allowed her a moment of consideration; the illusion of choice. When it had passed, she’d collected herself as much as was possible in this odd situation - for how could Seteth have ever foreseen a negotiation like _this,_ or adequately prepared her for it? - and nodded to Solon like she would any other diplomat.

“I understand,” she said quietly, expending every ounce of muscle control she had left to steady her hands and her breath. And then, under the oppressive watch of two eyes mismatched in size but equal in zeal and intent, she reached for a black syringe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does anyone else catch their solon dialogue slipping into emperor palpatine?


End file.
